Roseate
by Riddelly
Summary: "I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don't need to say so, not that... not that you can hear. But, just... do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don't have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just... shit. Okay. Just try. That's it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don't know what I'm going to do when it's over."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** _Important: this ship doesn't get enough love. So I might as well try to popularize it with angst. Other notes: this is modern au, and it is a (inaccurately portrayed) cancer fic. Good luck. _

* * *

**1**

He gets the call on May 7th, at precisely 2:46 in the afternoon.

The exact time isn't anything he'd pick up on normally, of course, but he's been watching the clock while trying to boil a pot of damn water for what feels like ages now, with vague abstractions of tea in mind—he's out of coffee, somehow. The truth is that he's procrastinating on the work he's got to get done for his human psychology course, and he's already admitted that to himself, the thought saturated with amusement more than anything else. He can't bring himself to care that much—he's already near-failing the class, and surely passing the next test won't make much of a difference anyways. Guaranteed lack of success is a sort of sour reassurance, and so he finds himself settled into comfortable neutrality towards the studying situation as a whole when the phone decides to ring.

The sound stirs just beneath the radio that he's got blasting, and for a moment he's under the false impression that the whiny jingle is just another part of the heavy, crashing music, before he realizes how it's a bit too obnoxious even for this cringe-worthy station. The next few seconds are an ungraceful rush as he hurries to unplug the stereo—his haste allows no time to actually switch it off—and reach for the phone, blinking in its cradle. He slams it under his ear just before the final buzz terminates.

"Yeah."

"Bahorel, hey, man."

"Courf," he greets in casual response, brightening slightly at the familiar warm tones of his friend. "What's up? If Combeferre said to check up on me again, you can tell him to take his nice little stack of completed essays and shove them right up his—"

A brief laugh, trembling with uncharacteristic nervousness, cuts in from the other end of the line, and Bahorel pauses, scowling towards the simmering teapot. It's bizarre for Courfeyrac to interrupt him, and even more so to sound unsettled. It's around this point that the first tremors of realization begin to thrum through his stomach, though he doesn't notice, of course, subconscious as they render themselves.

"Nah, nothing like that. Listen—I've got news. Are you sitting down?"

Sitting down. The syllables settle like rocks into his gut, and he tenses briefly, the near-boiling water forgotten as air rushes forth from his lungs. He tries to swallow, but his throat sticks. Courfeyrac isn't patronizing—were it Joly or Combeferre on the other line, he'd know not to take the subtle warning of the message's weight too seriously, but if Courfeyrac thinks that something is going to affect him, then there's just about no chance that it won't. He extends a hand, pretending that it doesn't shake, and settles it carefully on the tiling above the sink. The coolness is chilling rather than soothing. His head is on the verge of spinning, but he holds it carefully in place, paying no mind to the nausea surging in his stomach.

"Shit. What happened?" A fight. It must have been another goddamned fight that those idiots got themselves into, and without him, which is frankly both offensive and idiotic. He and Grantaire are probably the only ones out of them all who can actually hold their own in a proper riot, and yet somehow it always seems to be the rest who tangle themselves up in all variety of injuries.

Or worse. Courfeyrac has never called because of an injury before.

"Was it Enjolras?" Bahorel demands, scrambling ahead of himself in an effort to get the truth out. "It was, wasn't it? He never knows how to keep out of trouble, the _idiot, _doesn't realize that just because he can talk loud doesn't make him invincible—"

"It's not Enjolras," Courfeyrac interjects, and his words are stilted, almost apologetic. He sounds... _odd; _almost tearful and yet somehow the opposite, painstakingly dry and steady. "Bahorel, it's not Enjolras. Nobody got into... trouble. They've been great, actually. Getting their school crap done, for once."

"What do you mean, nobody got into trouble? Damn it, if you called me and acted like a devastated bitch because of some politician's death or something, I swear to God I will—"

"Jehan's in the hospital."

A paralyzing tremor shoots through his veins all at once, freezing the phone to his shoulder and his fingers to the wall. He inhales sharply, heat rearing behind his eyes and blurring his vision, and then a second later molten blankness is coursing through him, something like adrenaline but not quite. The words echo numbly through his mind—_Jehan's in the hospital, Jehan's in the hospital. Jehan. Jehan's in the hospital. _Not _at _the hospital, but _in _it; the delicate phrasing left no room for misinterpretation, and he can't mistake the meaning.

"Bahorel?—Bahorel!"

"What the hell happened?" He can barely hear his own voice, ablaze as his mind is, but Courfeyrac must, because he's babbling then, dumping out his information all at once now that he's crossed the line.

"Combeferre was the only one there, it was in that lit class that they've got together, so I can't tell you everything—apparently he collapsed in the middle of it, ended up hitting his head pretty hard and they had to cart him out... anyways, Combeferre went with them, and he just texted me, says that something's wrong and he's been in there for too long. The head whack could have been worse, so his best guess is that something worse than fatigue is responsible for the whole fiasco. I'm about to stop by; do you want me to pick you up?"

_Collapsed. _He can't imagine it, and his lips drift thoughtlessly over the word, as if framing it will somehow give it substance, reality. He can't think. _Worse than fatigue. Too long. _Shit.

_Shit. _

"Yeah. Just—just get your ass over here as soon as you can, I—do they really not know? Because if you're keeping something from me just because he's my—" He can't give their relationship a label. Anything sounds too cheap, but Courfeyrac understands him, and responds with emphatic reassurances, his quick warm voice somehow more stupefying than anything else.

"No, honest, that's everything I know. They could be wrong, it might have been anxiety, stress... he's been looking a bit pale lately."

"Don't give me _false fucking reassurances, _ get over here."

"On my way. Hang in there."

The terse words aren't yet finished when the line clicks silent, the final syllable clipped into muteness. Bahorel realizes that his shoulders are heaving, his chest trembling even though it feels as though his breath is frozen. _Keep your head, _he reminds himself with attempted sternness. False or not, Courfeyrac's words reverberate through his mind, reminding him of their validity—it really could be anything. And even if he's sick... Jehan Prouvaire is tough, way the hell tougher than he's ever given credit for. It's probably some stupid, trivial bug of the month, and surely they'll both be embarrassed later on that such a big deal was ever made of it.

_Collapsed, _his brain reminds him mockingly. Hit his head, because there was no one there to catch him. And the other nervous mentions that Courfeyrac had thrown in, references to some sort of anxiety or whatever—'_he's been looking a bit pale lately;' _has he? Of course he's been melancholy, but that's typical of his attitude, and Bahorel hasn't put much any thought to it at all. Jehan's dismalness is part of what makes him _Jehan,_ balanced out as it is by the sunniness of his good days. But, shit, if he's been blind, if he's been neglecting the blonde slip of a man all this time and refusing to see anything but his smile—he'll never be able to forgive himself.

He pretends that his hands aren't shaking by properly switching off the stove, then running his palms briefly over his forehead, breathing_—_he has to keep breathing. Still, the images are pressing, all the imagined scenarios, Jehan, Jehan, _Jehan—_did nobody notice if he was looking ill? What about Combeferre? Wouldn't he have been paying attention? Goddamn it, goddamn it, he can't think straight and his thoughts are fragmented and he needs to see him, he _needs _to see him. Surely his imagination is twisting things beyond their reality, and he hates that, hates having to rely on his own stupid visualization. He bites down furiously into his lip, praying that the pain, small as it is, might erase the aching sights gripping his mind's eye. It's easier, as well, to pretend that it's the sharp cut of his teeth that causes the impossible swell of moisture at the back of his eyes.

He can't fucking see anything. His chest hurts. His chest hurts so fucking badly.

An angry swipe at the liquid that he won't let himself call tears only half-clears his vision, but it's enough for a quick glance towards the clock to reveal it to be 2:49.

Three minutes. His entire life turned around in three goddamned minutes.

But, no, he's being melodramatic, because this is nothing. They'll find out what's wrong, and then they'll take care of it, and, no matter what, Jehan will be alright. That's what matters. It is absolutely all that matters, and therefore it'll be obtained at all costs. He's alright now—Combeferre said that there was nothing more than a head hit, and he trusts the older student's medical opinion, more so than just about anyone's. There's nothing more extreme happening. He won't _let _there be. It's his goddamned job to protect Jehan, it has been since the beginning, since even before he was accepted as an official stupid _boyfriend, _and he's not going to give that up now.

_You'll be fine. I won't let anything else happen. I promise. _

He takes another breath and runs his fingers through his hair, causing the gingery fringe to stand up even more so than usual. Calm. He's calm. His throat is still scorched, but he forces himself to ignore it and straighten his back, pacing through the hallway before throwing open his apartment door and greeting the fresh air that buffets his face. It's cool, uncomfortably cool for mid-spring, but he doesn't let it penetrate him.

_You will be fine. _

Courfeyrac's car, a rusty old red dump, pulls up a couple of minutes later, and he's at its side in seconds, pulling the door open and letting himself in. A battered green air freshener dangles from the rearview mirror, and Courfeyrac's arm is thrown absentmindedly over the passenger seat as he revs the engine and starts them briskly towards the hospital.

"How are you doing?" Courfeyrac checks, slanting a glance in his direction.

"Fuck, I don't—" He doesn't let himself finish. "Just get us to the hospital, okay?"

"Yeah." The street unrolls itself before them, backed by only the purr of the engine for a few terse seconds. The radio, so often tuned to noisy pop stations in this particular vehicle, is perfectly silent. He hates that silence, hates the unusual quality of it, but he supposes it's meant to be respectful of his own _feelings _or what the hell ever, and suffices to remain wordless, focusing on the myriad tired-looking pedestrians outside of the windows so that his mind can't flee back to Jehan.

"Do you think they'll let us see him?" He doesn't realize he's saying the words until they're out of his mouth, and then hates himself for the slip—he's afraid of the answer, of what it might entail.

"Shit, I don't know. I'm worried, man. Not that—"

"No." He settles back, drowns himself in the creak and stench of faux leather. "Don't try and hide shit from me. I want to hear it how it is, right? I know you care about him, and—and if you think that something could be up, don't you dare keep it from me."

"Right." Exhalation. "Sorry."

"What do you think is wrong?"

"I think he's sick. Really sick, not just the flu or something. He's been losing weight lately, have you noticed that? I don't know if it's intentional, I hope to hell it's not, but it's hurting him either way. He's... God, yeah. Just really sick."

Bahorel can't say anything. His voice has vanished.

* * *

"...Hi."

He looks embarrassed. _Embarrassed. _There are a million expressions that he could be assuming—pained, anxious, frightened, relieved; but he's opted for this. Lower lip half-trapped under his teeth, wide eyes lowered, a patchy flush contrasting horribly with the waxen pallor of his usually clear skin. Courfeyrac's comments cause Bahorel's eyes to skate briefly over the form swaddled beneath the thin, starchy sheets, and it really is absurdly thin, but he can't bring himself to dwell on it. He's too drawn to the face, to the half-smile gracing those delicate lips. He's here, he's alright, and surely that's all that matters for the time being.

"Hey, you. How's my favorite swooning princess?" Somehow, his voice doesn't crack. He wraps his fingers around the metal of the bed's frame, and an almost natural smile tilts his mouth, a pleasant surprise when he expected any sort of positive expression to be forced.

Jehan laughs, his teeth glinting briefly with a genuine grin, and Bahorel's chest only twists tighter. He looks so out of place here, stranded in this sea of crisp whiteness. It's foreign, and he feels distanced, as though the thin mattress separating from them is really miles in length. "I know I look bad," he mumbles.

"Of course you don't," Bahorel lies easily. "Sound pretty awful, though. What happened to you in there? I didn't get much of a chance to talk to Combeferre."

"Oh, it was... nothing, they're overreacting. It's really just... humiliating, more than anything. I mean, a lot of people already think that I'm... weak, and then..."

"Anyone who thinks you're _weak _is an idiot," he scoffs. There's another light laugh, and, somehow, he finds himself releasing the bed's metal bars, moving around its side so that he can crouch properly next to Jehan, lean in close enough to see the violet shadows under his sunken blue eyes. His fingers curl around the thin hands clasped over the blanket, and he's alarmed to discover that they're frigid, extremely so. He rubs his thumb gently along Jehan's wrist in a futile effort to warm it, making sure to maintain his slight smile. "And whatever's up with you now, you're just going to pull right through, aren't you? Prove them all wrong."

_Do that for me. _

_Please. _

"I don't..."

"Hey." Unwilling to hear any other words, he lifts their entwined hands, brings them to his lips and murmurs his next words into them. "Let's not be negative, alright? Chances are that the worst thing you've got going on is that bump on your head." It's also a lie, or at least a partial one. He hates himself more and more with every word that he utters, and yet it's somehow bitterly rewarding to see the way that his murmurings make Jehan smile, if only the slightest little bit. God, he's so gorgeous—even now, pale and skinny and done up in hospital blankets. So, so beautiful.

"...Alright." He sighs, a delicate motion thrumming down the length of his slender chest, then shakes his head slightly. Golden strands of hair tumble against his sallow cheeks. "It was... _really _horribly embarrassing, you know—they brought in a wheelchair and everything."

"From the way Courfeyrac described it, it sounded like you needed a wheelchair," he half-teases. It's becoming clear that Jehan is more than a little anxious over his experience, and probably for reasons more than peer pressure. His fingers twitch within Bahorel's grip, and Bahorel thinks for a moment that he's trying to pull away, before they thread more firmly through his own, squeezing tight like a hand to an anchor as Jehan's next words continue to spill out.

"I _didn't! _I just—okay." He straightens up slightly, his mouth twisting into half a scowl and half a grimace. "I got dizzy, and... fell out of my chair, sort of, I guess. I can't actually, um, remember much. Then I guess I hit my head, I... was in a wheelchair, next thing I knew? It sounds stupid, it—I'm sorry, it was just... it felt wrong, I don't know where it came from, it—" He bites against his lip again, running it between his teeth.

"It doesn't sound stupid," Bahorel replies, his voice as soft as he can possibly render it. He can't look away from the light, feminine face before him. "It doesn't sound stupid at all. It sounds... scary."

"It was _terrifying. _I hate it here, I just want to go back, I want to know what's going on—they're overreacting, but they're doctors, so they must know that something's wrong, _really _wrong, and I don't feel wrong, but shouldn't they have let me out by now? They're talking about tests, and murmuring to each other, and I shouldn't be here at all, I—"

Jehan's voice, escalating rapidly, is cut off all at once as the door opens and a bespectacled, clipboard-bearing man pokes his balding head in.

"Jean, is it?" he questions.

"Oh—yes?"

"He goes by Jehan," Bahorel interjects, vague irritation prickling his tone. He straightens up and reluctantly pulls his hands away, tucking them into his pockets as he throws his shoulders back.

"Jehan," the man, presumably a doctor, notes as he lets himself fully into the room. "Of course. Well, if you wouldn't mind, Jehan has a few tests on the next floor up that we have prepared for him now, and I'm afraid we can't allow any visitors in an unoccupied ward. We have a waiting room, if you don't mind holding on a few hours until we get what we need."

"Waiting room. Sure." To hell with psych work. "Hang in there, yeah?" he adds over his shoulder, passing the doctor and heading into the hallway. The words come out less casual than he originally planned, permeated instead with unconscious tenderness.

"'Course," Jehan agrees, and Bahorel's still staring after his wide blue eyes when the door closes between them.

* * *

The results come two days later.

He doesn't know how many scans have gone through. He does know that he hasn't been allowed back in Jehan's room since the first day, and that he hasn't attended a single class during that time, either. Most of his hours are spent in the hospital waiting room, staring at the wall or flipping blindly through one of the sickly sweet pop culture magazines arrayed there. It's during one of his rare visits home to his apartment, however, that he gets the text message.

It's from Combeferre. The letters are as brief and terse as his spoken words would be.

_They think it's cancer. _

His phone shatters against the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

He doesn't want to be around the rest of them. He doesn't want to be around any of them. He doesn't want to see anyone but Jehan, and Jehan's the one he can't see, barred as he is behind the walls of the goddamned hospital, alone and probably terrified, isolated amidst corridors of merciless white and shoved under a heavy blanket likely to be suffocating him. The more Bahorel thinks of the situation that his boyfriend might be in, the sicker he feels, and it spreads like a virus, dominating his mind until studying is a joke and even the Amis seem unimportant. Jehan is the first thing on his mind when he wakes up in the morning and stays there consistently, haunting him late into the night so that he's lucky to scrape three or four hours of sleep. It's taking a toll on him, the insomnia, and it shows in his scowl and his eyes, weighing down his limbs, resulting in yet more worrying and lethargy and beating itself into an endless cycle, until there's no way out at all.

After Combeferre told him, he couldn't think for a good hour. He was crying again, and wondering how long it had been since he'd felt so many tears, pouring ceaselessly down his face as if emerging from some detestably infinite source. He'd pause, choke, ram his forehead into the heel of his hand and try to pull himself together, but it refused to work, and every time reality established itself once more he'd find that he couldn't breathe, that there was nothing but hopelessness aching ferociously at his very being. It stung, everything about it, because Jehan didn't _deserve _this, because nobody deserved this, but Jean Prouvaire was young and alive and gorgeous and Bahorel couldn't possibly imagine him any other way.

It was after his eyes throbbed and no more tears could possibly emerge that he rose, shaking, gasping, making his way over to the laptop shoved in the corner of the kitchen table and flipping it open so sharply he nearly broke the screen. Hours passed, then, searching everything he possibly could—Combeferre hadn't specified what type of cancer or what stage, but rather than allowing that to deter him, he instead took it upon himself to absorb all the information he could, not pausing to eat or drink or sleep, whiling away the hours as night came and went, forcing himself to accept the bitter truths that the web pages were far too eager to provide. The landline rang seven times, and he ignored it, seeing absolutely no point to behaving as if he cared.

The first night was hard, felt like it nearly killed him, and yet, in reflection, it turns out to be far from the worst. Because the spiked _missing _only increases, and as the time between their last meeting extends, as Courfeyrac drops by and silently hands him a new mobile phone with no mention of debt, as he realizes that he hasn't eaten for half a week, as the days of his course tests fly by and he finds that he couldn't care less, he only falls further apart. Combeferre texts him, presumably given his new number by Courfeyrac, this time to tell him that it's pancreatic, that they don't know how far it's spread but they're hopeful they might be able to operate. This time, he doesn't break the stupid device—it's only the messenger, after all, and he has no feud with it. No feud with Combeferre, either, or even with the damn doctors—the only thing that his boundless anger can be properly directed at is the cancer itself, the ugly, fucked-up, deformed little disease that dares to work its grotesque curses on his Jehan, his flower.

On the fourth day, he's in his room, tangled in the sheets of his bed, wondering how fast and hard he can breathe before something inside of him shatters. His fingers twine with nothing, and he can too easily remember the nights that Jehan was here, curled beside him, forehead pressed into Bahorel's collarbone and long pale hair silken over both of their shoulders. The nights when they felt each other, and the nights when they kissed, and the nights when they only whispered moonlit words into each other's lips or did nothing at all, sufficing to listen to the way their breathing pulsed together. Warmth is what he remembers most vividly, and warmth is what he's lacking in now, stranded in a sea of emptiness, staring at the wall and wondering how the hell this could have happened.

He barely moves all day, and in the late evening, his phone trills. It's the default jingle of an incoming text, bracingly different from the quartet of musical notes that he'd had his old one set to, and it unsettles him, but he wastes no time in scooping it up from the bedside table and glancing at the name flashed across the screen.

It's from Enjolras, sent to all of them. _Musain 10. _

He clenches his teeth until they strain.

Instants later, before he has the chance to set the device down, its screen is illuminated with a second message, this one with him as the only recipient. Courfeyrac is the sender this time.

_Sry about enj—ill talk to him—pls come. _

He's got no idea why they want him to come, wreck that he is, but he sees no reason to stay. Despite the utter weight of his mind, he's still capable of logic, and he knows that the longer he remains here, the worse he's going to feel. He's had long, too long to absorb every facet of the truth that Jehan's diagnosis confronted him with, and the next step, surely, is to test his altered outlook in the real world. See just how compatible his sobered attitude is with the Amis as a whole. Besides, he misses them—not as much as he misses Jehan, but all of this, being alone, isn't good for him.

He'll go. Maybe it will be a mistake, but this time, he'll go.

* * *

He arrives early, and Enjolras is the only one there, back to the door as he straightens the chairs arranged around the back room. The red-clothed shoulders stiffen at the noise of entry, and he glances back tersely, blue eyes solemn as they meet Bahorel's hard green ones.

The sapphire gaze is cast down briefly. "I heard. Thank you for coming."

"Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."

"Of course not."

They say nothing more, and Bahorel settles at a small table near the back, far from the bright-lit center he usually occupies. A few minutes pass, then Courfeyrac's dark-curled head pokes through the door. He catches sight of Bahorel and vanishes again; instants later, an amber bottle settles onto the wooden tabletop before him.

"On me," Courfeyrac promises. "You deserve it."

"Whatever." He wastes no time, but instead uncaps it in a swift movement that burns his palm, and he's drinking steadily as the rest begin to filter in. First Combeferre, accompanied by Feuilly, and then Grantaire, with Bossuet and Joly rounding up the back. The latter hurries over to him immediately, eyes wide with concern.

"Combeferre told me what happened—I'm so sorry, Bahorel, it's awful, just... just horrible stuff, really."

"You would say so."

"What?" The already tilted eyebrows arch into further concern, and Bahorel waves him off with a dismal sort of apathy, staying steady where he'd usually burst into laughter. It all feels incredibly stupid, _they _all do, and he finds himself wondering what compelled him to come here in the first place, when there's clearly nothing to be gained by being among these people who can do little more than offer their useless sympathies. Going to the Musain isn't going to bring Jehan back into their ranks, won't make him healthy again. He doesn't know if that's what he was expecting, somehow, but it doesn't matter, because it hurts equally either way.

"Nothing. Thanks."

He hates the shortness of his words, but not enough to lengthen them, and he pretends that he doesn't notice the darkening of Joly's eyes, or the way that he ducks his head as he steps away with a mumbled apology. Bossuet half-glares at him, apparently not quite able to muster a full scowl, and Bahorel once more doesn't care.

"Friends," Enjolras begins, moving to the front of the room and cutting through the muted conversations that had been stirring among their ranks. Grantaire's gaze is the first to snap to his, and Bahorel finds himself watching the cynic rather than the leader, more fascinated by the flaws of the bitter man than the perfection of the shining one. He looks scruffy, as much so as ever, and his eyes are cloudier than usual, a shadowed face and tangled hair reflecting a major downswing of his already dismal mood. Bahorel has no idea whether it's because of Jehan or Enjolras, and wonders whether Grantaire knows or cares about the fate of the poet, if he's too far suffocated by his own adoration to properly care about anyone other than the object of his near-worship. Either way, his current affixation is clearly on Enjolras, on the easy words falling from his strong lips, and Bahorel feels himself absorbing them as if from a distance, sickened by each syllable.

"We have much ahead of us, as you all know, but there is another topic to address first, something of utmost concern."

He knows what's coming, and he figures for the first time that he really _hates _Enjolras, detests him for his directness and stoic attitude. He's inhuman. Grantaire may idolize that coldness, but Bahorel finds it repulsive, and his fingers curl, instinctively forming an empty fist that none of the rest of them, focused on their leader, notice.

"Surely, the majority of you have taken note of Jean Prouvaire's absence tonight. He is hospitalized for the time being, diagnosed with what has been tentatively labeled as pancreatic cancer."

There is not a stir. No one is surprised. Bahorel feels Joly glance back towards him, and Feuilly as well. They know about him and Jehan. They expect him to be hurt. He is, but there's no reason to let them know.

"Our thoughts, of course, are with him, and it is my sincere hope that he will soon recover and join us in our endeavors once more. He has always played an irreplaceable role among us all, being one of our most dedicated believers in freedom, and I am sure that he would be nothing but overjoyed to see us continue to fight for that cause in his regrettable absence."

Bahorel feels fire wrestling within him, and he leans back heavily, his chest trembling. He wants to sprint to the front of the room, to seize Enjolras's unevenly buttoned scarlet shirt and dash him against the wall, teach the impenetrable sculpture of a man what tears feel like. _He wouldn't be overjoyed, you obsessive bastard. He barely knows what joy feels like, and of course you can't tell. You know his name and his face and the fact that he grows fucking flowers, and that's enough for you, isn't it? _To scream at Grantaire—_how can you love this? How can you love something so heartless?—_but he can't, he can't do anything but sit and fume.

Feuilly is still watching him, eyes steady, and he returns the gaze with a glare, but the light-haired painter is unperturbed. He, for one, looks genuinely sorry, and doesn't try to drown them all in false sentiments. Bahorel is grateful for that, in a way, and reminds himself painstakingly that he can't allow himself to be furious at them all solely because Enjolras is so determinedly insensitive.

Still, he can't do this. He can't sit here and listen to Enjolras tick off words like a life-weary funeral orator. So he finds himself standing, his fingers steepled into the wood of the table, his teeth working more than his tongue to form his next words.

_"Shut the hell up." _

Combeferre and Bossuet tense while the rest of them turn, Enjolras's ravishing features twitching into momentary confusion. "Bahorel," he acknowledges tightly.

"Stop it. Stop—stop talking about him like you know what the fuck's going on. You don't. You don't give a shit about what happens to him, about what happens to _any of us_"—his stare twists briefly to Grantaire, who appears physically struck—"so long as your precious little rebellion keeps on simmering. Pretending otherwise makes you look like even more of a fucking prick than you are, and none of us need that. None of us—"

He realizes all at once just how hard his shoulders are shaking, and when he pauses, it's only for his lungs to be seized by a number of tremors, heaving and wretched. For him, however, tears don't come with anger, and it is anger dominating him now, drowning everything out in a flame of almost welcome respite.

"Bahorel, calm down," Combeferre says firmly, but he _can't _calm down, and the insistence that he does is only more infuriating, and he can't _think, _he just knows that he needs to get out of here, that he doesn't belong here when Jehan's gone, that he feels nauseous and heated and awful, and the only place he wants to be is that hospital room, holding the hand of the one person in the world whom he doesn't detest right now.

"Fuck you," he snarls back simply. "All of you. Fuck your _faith _and your _revolution. _Jehan's dying. He's _dying, _and you're all here with your goddamned alcohol and _politics. _It's disgusting. You're all fucking disgusting."

His hand lashes out suddenly, violently, and the nearly-empty beer bottle jolts off the table, colliding with the floor and releasing a hundred sharp missiles of murky glass, spraying in every direction. One shaves through his bicep, but he ignores it, determined not to think about the way that Jehan would patch him up after fights when Joly was busy, not to imagine the weary fondness in the blonde man's pale blue eyes. It hurts, a thousand times more than the burn of the glass in his skin, and then he's lurching around the table, refusing to meet any of their gaping stares as he forces himself out of the room, through the front of the Musain and outside to the cruelly blazing sunlight.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts for the hospital.

* * *

"I _need _to see him."

"M. Prouvaire is unavailable for guest visitations at the moment," the woman at the front desks insist for what's probably the twelfth or thirteenth time. "His records..." A brief click of her computer monitor, which he desperately wishes he could see. When she speaks again, her tone is light with surprise. "His records say that he's not meant to stay here for much longer, however."

He proceeds to interpret this in the most morbid way possible, and his next word is nearly shouted as his stomach falls away in a swift wrench. _"What?" _

"I can't tell you any more with that, but his doctor may be available for a brief word, if you care to wait for a few minutes—"

"I can wait," he agrees in a rush, and his head feels light, almost alarmingly so. _Not meant to stay here for much longer. _Surely, _surely _that isn't referring to—to his stay in _life—_no, the very thought is so horrific that he doesn't allow himself to touch on it for more than a brief fragment of a second. His mind is a whirlwind as he pulls away from the desk, moves without thinking in the direction of the far too familiar waiting room. It's absurd. Maybe she got his records mixed up somehow—for cancer can't be _cured, _he's positive of that. God, of course it can't. Does he have time left, then? Enough time that they can spare him from what Bahorel can't help but imagine to be some sort of intensive care?

It's in this state of utter confusion that the doctor finds him. It's the same one who kicked him out of Jehan's room the first time, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and shock of greyish, receding hair. "Now, there's a familiar face!" he exclaims far too brightly. "I'll assume you're the one inquiring after our M. Prouvaire, then?"

_Our _M. Prouvaire. He hates it. He hates everything about this place, with its antiseptic reek and its glaringly pale surfaces. It's draining, and it must be sucking the goddamned life out of Jehan, confined as he is to its relentless depths.

"Yeah. The desk lady said that he's going to... to get out soon. But he can't. He's got fu—" A pause, a forced breath. "He's got _cancer_." The words cause his stomach to jerk, and he lifts a hand, wipes it slowly across his mouth to cover the tremble of his lips. He still can't stand hearing the words, even after lying in bed late at night repeating them over and over to himself, even after screaming them as he rammed his fist into the wall again and again and again.

"Yes, he does. But, well... perhaps we should talk in a more private area, for such delicate subject matter."

Bahorel makes a show of glancing to his left and right, scoping out the entirely empty waiting room. The doctor's lips tense, but he doesn't object.

"Very well. You see, Jean Prouvaire has been sick for a very long time. Remarkably long, in fact. It's a wonder that he hasn't been hospitalized before his recent... attack. The loss of consciousness itself was not, in fact, caused directly by the disease for which we hold him now—it was triggered by a combination of the symptoms, rather; weight loss, anxiety, low blood sugar, the like. And the fact that it took so long for them to take a startling enough toll on him for medical attention is... unfortunate. We've reached the point, I'm afraid, where operation would be futile... the best thing we can do is to, well, to make sure he's comfortable."

He feels his heart jerk in the wrong direction entirely, spinning violently sideways, cutting through everything around it like a flaming iron rod. His lungs are cauterized as soon as torn open, and he attempts to take a halting breath, but it's extinguished by what feels like a mass of raw scar tissue dominating his chest. Everything is too slow, too thick, and he can't close his mouth—his lips are numb, his tongue dry, his head resonant with denial.

The doctor is still talking. The fucking doctor hasn't stopped talking. The earth has collapsed and burned to nothing and his blood is molten steel and his head is a sandstorm and the doctor still hasn't stopped motherfucking talking.

"It's a condition we refer to as _metastatic, _meaning that the cancer itself has spread far from the actual pancreas, so that it's affecting several organs in his body at this point. He's very strong, however, despite what I'm sure you can agree is an outwardly frail appearance, and since we can do nothing more for him other than make sure his time is spent happily, we'd like to allow him to fill it however he wishes. He's expressed the wish that he'd rather not stay here, but instead proceed as though things were... normal, I believe he said."

Expressed the wish. He knows. He knows that he is going to die. He knows that they can do nothing about it.

"He mentioned the sun, I believe, and the scent. Something about not missing a last springtime."

His eyes ache.

"In fact, I think your own name might have come up once or twice, M... Bahorel, is it not?"

_He can't breathe. _

"So, yes. I do hate to bring unfortunate news, but I believe our plan at the moment is to let him go in just a couple of days. He'll need regular checkups, of course, but for a generally indefinite amount of time he should be able to go through life as normal... we can give estimations, of course... but there's no need to put a number on it, especially one that isn't likely to remain legitimate. Each of these cases is truly unique, and we'll have to see how M. Prouvaire's develops on its own."

Somehow, he isn't shaking. He is still. Perfectly still. Only his lungs heave, jerking and trembling and still unable to draw in even the shallowest gasp of air.

The words repeat themselves without his permission, ingraining their stark syllables more permanently into his memory with each awful run.

_Operation is futile. The best we can do is—_

_Operation is futile. _

_Futile. _

There's nothing that can be done.

Nothing.

Time has taken the reins.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

"Any minute, monsieur, as I said."

"No, I—I need to see him now. Please. It's been days."

"I'm afraid we can't pull him out early. These are only his final checks—just hold on a bit longer, and he'll be out before you know it."

"Please…"

Bahorel hates begging, hates it with everything he possesses. It weakens him and stupefies him, and yet it's to such desperate measures that he finds himself reduced now, one eye on the clock that reveals Jehan should have been out in the lobby a good four minutes ago now. It's that much past three in the afternoon, Saturday the 18th, and they've been telling him for half a week now that it's today they're letting him out. Cursed with his need, he's been sitting in the damn waiting room since nine in the morning, perhaps with the futile hope that they'd think to turn him out early, and it's gotten to the point where he just can't take it any longer. He needs to see him, as he's attempting to convey to a passing nurse now; _needs _to with a fervency that spikes his tone into highness and causes his hand to run repeatedly through his own hair, fingers tangling in the ginger tufts, probably causing it to stand on end. Chances are that he looks insane, considering how he hasn't slept for a couple of nights now, and only for a few hours before then—his eyes are hollowed and his face pale with exhaustion, and he can see the concern in the eyes of the woman across from him, but he forces himself to dismiss it, because it doesn't matter right now. Nothing matters except for the fact that he can see Jehan, that he—

"Bahorel?"

He can't turn fast enough. His lips feel numb, but he thinks his mouth is falling open, his eyes wide in an expression that's half relief and half anguish—

There he is.

Standing in the doorway without support, without any sort of wheelchair or medical apparatus hooked up to him; looking, for all the world, _normal. _Fucking normal with his light hair held back from his wide-eyed face, features arranged into an expression of tentative delight that burns against Bahorel's own driving agony. And yet that gentleness dissipates the pain wrenching within him even as it increases, so that he feels his own face relaxing, morphing into a near-blissful smile at the sight of the young man before him.

"Hey, flower," he whispers, and he can barely hear his own voice, though its scratch against his throat is painfully clear. Then Jehan smiles, his teeth glinting and his chin tipping forward in a slight laugh, and Bahorel's eyes burn but he doesn't care as he turns completely from the nurse, hurries over and wraps both of his arms around the diminutive form before him, joining his hands at the back of Jehan's waist and holding onto him powerfully and tenderly both at once, dipping his nose into the thin shoulder and inhaling the light, sunny scent, still undiminished by the days of immersion in the hospital's disgusting cleanliness.

"I missed you," Jehan mumbles. Bahorel laughs, squeezing tighter so that Jehan can't feel him shake.

_I can't lose this. I can't lose this. I can't lose this._

"Missed you, too. You look wonderful."

"Rest helped with some of… some of the symptoms, I guess," he reasons, and Bahorel nods even though it's ridiculous, even though they both know that whatever brief respite this might be offers not even the faintest trace of a genuine solution to the damning issue. They can pretend, though. There's no reason at all that they can't pretend.

"Good. That's good." For an instant longer, he just clings onto him, keeps breathing until he's drunk on his scent, and then he laughs more and moves his hands to Jehan's wrists, holding them close together as he pulls away just enough for their eyes to meet. Vivid green blazes into pale blue, and their heavy breathing ceases for an instant, both pulled into silence by the intimacy of their shared stare. He can feel Jehan's pulse fluttering under his fingers, swift and gentle as a hummingbird's wings, and he thinks it must be the most precious thing on the whole of the planet.

Then Jehan coughs, just slightly, and Bahorel is reminded of where they are and what they have to do; he nods, more to himself than anything else, and wraps an arm loosely around the smaller man's shoulder, otherwise stepping away and giving him enough distance to ensure the comfort of any onlookers.

"Alright," he sighs, savoring the taste of the words in his mouth. "Let's get you home, shall we?"

"Home," Jehan agrees, leaning in against him. "Home sounds perfect."

* * *

They do go home, but only briefly, only long enough for it to become clear that Jehan doesn't want to be here. His head is lowered and his teeth pressing down over his lower lip as he surveys the neat apartment, and, somehow, Bahorel understands—this is impossible for him, to take a place that reeks so completely of his old life and overlay it with the poison of his new one. He does not want to stand in these hallways knowing his fate, for doing so will surely tarnish their memories, cloud over the light ignorance that previously consumed him while he was here.

His shoulders are shaking after a few moments of standing still, gazing towards his bed, and Bahorel paces up to him, lifts a tentative hand to settle on his shoulder.

"You alright?" It's a stupid question, but obligatory. Neither of them are alright.

"I just..." He swallows heavily, then ducks his head in shame, long strands of pale hair trailing over Bahorel's fingertips and obscuring his delicate profile. "I don't want to be... alone, tonight." He hesitates for a second, but Bahorel doesn't need anything else, and before he can help himself, he's gathering Jehan more fully into his arms, holding him tight enough to feel his steady heartbeat. He inhales, drowns himself once more in that light springtime aroma that clings to him so naturally.

"You don't have to. You can come with me, flower, you can always come with me."

"...Yeah," he mumbles, and nods, not making any move to pull away. "I just—it's hard being here... I can't quite describe it, but it's hard."

"It's fine. I understand." The tears, unexpectedly, have returned to the back of his own eyes, and he blinks them away in frustration, hating them for their selfish appearance at a time when his own emotions are the last thing to be concerned about. "I understand."

* * *

They stay on their own for the night. Combeferre and Courfeyrac and probably the rest of them know that Jehan was meant to be released today, but none of them mention it, don't stop by either apartment or even send a phone. They're taking the time to respect both of them, and Bahorel appreciates it, more than he could put into words—so chances are that he won't even try to. This is easier, he thinks. For Jehan to not have to deal with hordes of people apologizing and crowding him, but rather get a night on his own. Or as close to on his own as he can be without feeling swamped by the loneliness that comes with true isolation.

They're silent, most of the time. Bahorel figures at first that Jehan might want to talk, and so keeps himself open to such a possibility, trying to stay approachable as he settles the smaller man down in a chair, puts on a bit of jasmine tea that he's found in a back cupboard and hurries about the apartment opening windows, letting the floral breeze drift in with a light gust of refreshing warmth to combat the harsh sting of air conditioning. He attempts to talk, a couple of times—about stupid things, really, that he can't remember five minutes after he's uttered them—but the response is usually either monosyllabic or nonexistent, and after a while he silences himself, allows the evening birdsong to fill the space left by his modesty.

"Nightjar," Jehan speaks up after a while, just as Bahorel is settling a rather stained tea mug between his slack hands, settled on the kitchen countertop. His pale eyes are distant, and his lips move softly, as though he's not intending for his words to be audible.

"Huh?"

"Listen."

He does, and a unobtrusively buzzing stir reaches his ear, rather like a cross between a cicada and a cat's purr. It's low and rather calming despite its repetitiveness, and induces within him a strongly nostalgic whip of memories, recollections of other summer nights; loud ones out with Enjolras and the rest, quiet ones when Jehan was the only other, and those on his own, before college, even before the Amis—back when there was only really him, when he was known among his loose group of friends as only the rowdy one, when none of them knew what lingered beneath that violent, humored surface. He'd take walks alone then, sometimes; had a field near his house that he'd spend hours in, stay up till it was early enough that the sun lightened the stars. That had been a side of himself that he'd shown to no one. No one before Jehan.

His breath stops in his throat. _Don't take this away from me. _

But he forces it through again, because he has to, because he's not stupid enough to let his own feelings overcome him when there's a much more important factor at stake. He refuses to reveal how much this is hurting him to Jehan himself. It could only possibly make things worse, and he absolutely cannot afford that sort of guilt weighing him down right now, not when the rest of the world is already straining to an inevitably approaching breakpoint.

"It's pretty," he says simply, and Jehan nods, moving a hand to prop up his chin while the fingers of the other tease the rim of the tea mug. The slight disturbance causes the breath of steam lingering above it to twist and fragment.

"It's gorgeous," Jehan sighs, then clasps the handle of the mug and brings it up to his lips, sipping contemplatively.

Bahorel stands beside him, and neither of them say another word until the mug is empty and the nightjar is gone and the breeze has turned from balmy to chilling. Then he stands up, tosses the mug in the sink and closes the windows. It's good to keep his hands moving, he's learned—activity seems to suspend their shakiness.

"You tired?" he asks over his shoulder, once there's nothing else to distract himself with.

"A bit."

He strides back across the kitchen and lays his hands lightly on Jehan's shoulders, resisting the urge to grasp him with as much ferocity as he can, as if a tight enough grip can hold him here forever, anchor his evanescent soul on Earth where it belongs. Still, demand only ever inflicted damage, and so he keeps his touch torturously tentative, withholding himself with such willpower that he finds his lungs moving with uncharacteristic swiftness.

"We can go to bed, if you want." He disregards the fact that the sun is barely down; time has never held less meaning for him. "Not—well... I mean, we can just go to bed."

He's positive that Jehan would normally smile at such an awkward utterance, even return it playfully, but now he does nothing more that nod, the action drawn out in such a way that Bahorel is sure there's more on his mind, apparently so much that it's beginning to obscure reality itself with its intensity. "Okay," he murmurs.

Bahorel can feel himself breaking, but he doesn't say a word beyond returning the affirmation. "Okay," he agrees, running his fingers briefly through the long golden hair before him and squeezing the thin shoulders in a swift burst. "Let's."

* * *

Bahorel is the first to wake up the next morning, a bit sweaty under the heavy blankets that Jehan's shivers induced the addition of, but nothing uncomfortable. It's disorienting, to realize that the other man is here but not _beside _him; every one of the numerous times, to the best of his recollection, that they've spent the night in a single bed, he's returned to consciousness with Jehan wrapped in his arms, often snuggled into his chest with his forehead pressed against Bahorel's collarbone. Now, however, he's inches away—perhaps not a huge distance, but it feels endless. His form is graceful under the sheets, hair spilling over the pillow below him in a series of pale amber ripples, and his thin shoulders rise and fall slightly. His face is turned away, but his breaths are still audible; small, almost dainty gusts that Bahorel finds himself suspending his own exhalations in order to hear properly. Jehan's breathing has never been a huge source of fascination to him before—at least, no more than the rest of him—but now it stands out as particularly precious, particularly _limited._

_Cancer, _his brain reminds him in a sour hiss, and his stomach twists nauseatingly as he draws in a quick, unwilling gasp.

As if disturbed by the noise, Jehan lets out a slight whimper, then stretches his shoulders and turns slowly onto his back, golden lashes fluttering sleepily as he works his wide blue eyes open. His features dance in the sunlight, almost surreal, and Bahorel doesn't even realize he's smiling until Jehan returns the expression.

"You're pretty in bed," the blonde murmurs, lifting one fine-boned hand out from under the covers to tap Bahorel lightly on the nose.

"Sure I am," he returns with a light chuckle. "Hair all over the place, unshaved since yesterday morning, eyes probably puffed up—what's not to love?"

"Shut up," Jehan returns easily, and when he leans in to kiss him, Bahorel closes his eyes and tries with all of his willpower, somehow, impossibly, ridiculously, to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The hour of two to three in the afternoon has become Bahorel's least favorite time of day, burdened as it is with the repulsive memories of that first call from Courfeyrac. He knows it's irrational and sentimental to get so caught up in a period of sunlight that's only really been devised by the strict labeling that clocks provide, but he can't help it, and wonders on occasion whether Jehan's own absurdly tragic attitude is reaching his mind. In any case, it's impossible to shake the steady gloom that settles over him a couple of hours after noon, and it's only all the more painful when he's in class, with none of the distractions that a usual free day might provide.

He's been going back to school ever since Jehan's release from the hospital, on the poet's own insistence; he had seemed horrified, if a bit flattered, upon discovering that Bahorel had taken to skipping out on his classes out of sickened concern. Besides, there's no excuse for him to stay behind now, since doing so would only cause him to spend even less time at Jehan's side. They share only one class, but it's one regardless, and it's also, infuriatingly, the one that encompasses the two-to-three hour period that Bahorel has come to despite so thoroughly.

This particular class, a mathematics course that calls itself Calculus II, is immensely difficult to endure even on a tri-weekly basis. This particular session, the first since Jehan's return from the hospital, couldn't be more dull, and Bahorel stops trying to pay attention to the instructor after about the first two minutes, resigning instead to a soft gaze at the long-haired blonde head ducked in front of him. The clock is too loud, thrumming over the professor's dull mutter, and it's causing him to itch, fidget in his seat with the urge to bolt out of the room and get a whiff of fresh air, at the very least. It's in tepid times like this that he has the hardest time forgetting, and he hates that, wants more than just about anything to be able to dislodge his obsessive nature and just breathe easily again.

But that's impossible, and so he sits and itches and curses the clock, his knee jiggling with impatience. A low rush behind him reveals that the rain clouds lingering all day have finally broken open and begun assaulting the windows, and the prospect of the cool, refreshing shower is only more infuriating, until it's all he can do to keep still and quiet. The haunting minute hand creeps around 2:46, a time that he still can't make himself forget, and it's nine minutes later that the professor finally relents, shutting down the projector and spouting out some homework numbers that Bahorel doesn't bother to try and take down. His textbook is in his bag and slung around his shoulder before most of the class has gotten out of their chairs, and then he's at Jehan's side, setting his hands heavily on the smaller man's desk.

"Hey," he greets, ducking down to be at proper eye level. The pale blue gaze darts up to his, and a slight smile spreads over the delicate features across from him, almost shy as Jehan shoves away his own notebook and various other materials.

"Hi."

"It's raining," Bahorel points out as casually as he can, keeping his stare fixated on Jehan even as the latter's gaze shifts downwards, the smile still not falling away. He always looks so fragile with his eyes down, as slight and ethereal as some sort of flower spirit, though of course Bahorel is nowhere near ridiculous enough to put voice to such an absurd metaphor. "You love rain."

"I do," Jehan confirms, and his tone is almost playful, though his words stay measuredly ignorant of Bahorel's obvious intentions. "I also have a physics class next hour."

"Yeah," Bahorel agrees, springing back and shoving his hands into his pockets as Jehan rises, "but you _don't _love physics."

"It's okay."

"Let's go," he half-whines. Jehan carries a canvas messenger's bag rather than a traditional backpack, and his long hair falls over his feminine features as he hoists it onto his shoulders, apparently unable to tame the light smile that still teases his lips. "Just one hour. I mean—" He bites back the final words, which he supposes he never had any intention of uttering in the first place. He can't say that this might be one of their last chances to act like children. Can't, because he wouldn't dare to remind Jehan of such a thing, and because every time he speaks the words aloud, it only confirms things more definitely. It's better, surely, to pretend; if he acts like nothing is wrong, then it has to be that way. Jehan is doing alright now, his symptoms clearing up at least a bit, and Bahorel isn't willing to give that up in favor of the damned illness's acknowledgement.

"Where?" Jehan questions, eyeing him as he exits the room. Bahorel half-strides and half-trots alongside him, moving backwards in order to keep their easy gazes locked.

"I'll show you," he promises, reaching up to shove away a stray lock of gingery hair. They pass into the hallway, relatively empty with the rest of their class already dispersed. "Come on."

Without giving Jehan a chance to reply, he reaches forwards, winds the thin, cool fingers in his own wide, warm ones, and Jehan is laughing helplessly as Bahorel dashes through the sterile hallways, headed for the side door that he knows to be located only a few rooms away. His heart races furiously below his ribcage, pounding equally with the jubilation of their juvenile escape and the pure immature rebelliousness of it; truancy is so trivial, and yet there's still an energizing spark to the tiny crime, a painless echo of the raging flame brought by their more traditional riotous activities.

Their feet scatter unevenly on the ground, footsteps noisy in the quiet hallways, and Bahorel can only imagine the professors in the rooms nearby, scowling as the peace of their classrooms is disrupted. The prospect only causes him to snort with his own laughter, and his legs are shaking with energy by the time he reaches the door and throws it open in the most magnificent flourish he can manage.

"After you, princess," he declares, gesturing towards the outdoors with a wide swoop of his hand. Jehan bites a bit uncertainly at his lower lip, the smile faded but still present. He reaches up to comb the loose blonde strands of his mussed hair out of his face, and takes a moment to disengage himself from Bahorel, unlooping the bag from his shoulder and setting it carefully against the wall. Following the cue, Bahorel copies the action, dumping his own backpack and rolling his shoulders in relief from the weight.

"I'm not a princess," Jehan murmurs, something which he's stated before, but never with enough resolve to get Bahorel to drop the nickname. Bahorel shrugs in response, and Jehan rolls his eyes, but willingly ducks outside into what's quickly become a solid sheet of rain.

Grinning in triumph, Bahorel follows, and the door slams shut behind them. The shower immediately greeting his face and bare arms is the perfect temperature, warm but still refreshing, and he whoops as loudly as he can, thrusting his palms towards the grey-stained sky and spinning around in a full circle. Jehan's laughing again, his long hair instantly drenched and his light shirt clinging to his thin figure with the sopping moisture. Rainwater trails down his jaw and neck, only adding to the surrealistic beauty that he so constantly emanates.

A second later, Bahorel realizes he's staring, and hastens to leap into his own action, lunging forward and taking Jehan's wrist again. His feet slosh in rapidly gathering puddles, but he doesn't care, even loves the splash arching up his calves. "Let's go," he urges, drawing the smaller man in close and gazing down at him, at his wide blue eyes, his flushed cheeks, the hint of pearly teeth through that sweet, soft grin. "Let's just... go. Let's run."

_Away from it all. _He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to, because Jehan is nodding, eagerly as he bites at his lip again, and then Bahorel is turning, his grip firm on the rain-slicked wrist below him as he dashes down the sidewalk, skidding and slipping but not caring as the pavement unfurls under his soaked feet. Jehan hurries after him, giggling again with the absurdity of it all, and Bahorel grins into the oncoming rush, gasping in air as exhilaration floods through him.

He keeps running until his heart feels like it's reaching into his throat and his clothes are soaked through completely, grey T-shirt growing transparent with wetness. It's only when his legs are burning that he whirls around all at once, not giving Jehan a chance to slow down but instead pulling him into his own arms and twirling him around completely, watching his sapphire eyes spring wide as he swings him with clumsy fluidity. And it doesn't matter that the movement isn't executed perfectly, that halfway through he starts laughing and his shoulders give out and he ends up just bringing Jehan in as close as he can, running his fingers through the dripping hair and pressing his lips to the moisture-slicked forehead. It doesn't matter in the least, because it feels magical anyways, and from the way that Jehan flings his arms around Bahorel's neck and tucks his face into his shoulder, still trembling with giddy laughter, he hopelessly believes that the ringing emotion is shared between them and not isolated unto himself.

They've gone nearly a mile by now, surely, and their surroundings are unfamiliar, distanced in the opposite direction of the college campus from their apartments. A streetlight, blurred by the downpour, flickers from red to green, and the verdant light washes over both of them, rebounding in the puddles at their feet. He gathers Jehan up to him as completely as possible, fingers probing his sharp shoulder blades through the thin cover of the drenched shirt, and indulges himself in a deep, heavy inhalation, allowing the spring floral scent to flood him until he's dizzy with its richness.

"You're so beautiful in the rain," he sighs against Jehan's ear. The initial response is a swift tension, and then he pulls back, just enough so that their foreheads can press together and they can gaze properly into each other's eyes, green to blue, blue to green. Somehow, Bahorel can't quite smile; he's far from upset, suspended as he is in the enchantment of their little rainy bubble, but the utter emotion struck into him by the soft features across from him is too unadulterated, too raw, too _pure _to be encompassed in as rough and senseless a gesture as the grin that he dons so constantly. It means more, at this point, to find himself incapable of mustering any expression that could possibly begin to contain his emotions. Much, much more.

"And you're gorgeous," Jehan responds, lifting one hand to wind his fingers through Bahorel's soaked ginger mop, thumb trailing along his hairline and a sweet half-smile tilting his mouth.

"Nah," he breathes in response, and he can barely voice the soft sound. His lungs are still heaving from his sprint, and Jehan's proximity makes it near-impossible to retrieve even the slightest whisper of oxygen, so that a far from unpleasant dizziness explodes through his mind, rendering everything a thousand times more unreal, and therefore more precious.

"Oh, yes. You are. My handsome prince," Jehan sighs, and the last thing Bahorel processes before ducking in is that the blonde's quiet smirk has an almost superior air, but then he can't see anything else, because he's reaching up and slipping his fingers gently under the thin jaw, tilting it up and leaning forwards and vanquishing what little breath he has left as he closes the distance beneath them and tastes Jehan's grin below his own, winding them together until there's nothing but the sigh of the rain and the warmth of their closeness.

For that little handful of miniscule infinities, nothing can touch them. Not sickness or the others, not the lash of rain, not the school where they'll be punished for skipping, not the cars which blare endlessly past the sidewalk where they stand, not the past or the future or anything in-between, for none of that exists, not here, not now. The concept is almost laughable, for surely that's not real; _this _is real and tangible and definite, and Bahorel is absolutely positive that he's never felt more alive, farther from the prospect of demise. It is reality, and reality is what they've distanced themselves from so beautifully, landing instead in some snow globe of a fairy tale. They are impossible. They are all that each other needs, as absurd as that is, and their luminescence can't be stained by any petty concern that comes with the rest of the world, with all the people and scum and viruses that inhabit it, for surely they're above that now.

It's only a few seconds before they break away, but Bahorel only brushes Jehan's overlong hair out of his eyes and kisses him again, dipping in over and over, growing more insistent in his motions and not caring that people are probably watching, maybe even laughing or rolling their eyes. It's so utterly, blissfully irrelevant, and all he knows for sure is that every time Jehan sighs into him, it's like his very core trembles, awash in tenderness that moves him more effectively than the solidest of punches. He's so fragile, and every stir sparks chills, until Bahorel can feel his eyes burning from the absolute gentleness.

"Really," he murmurs, slipping over so that his lips move slightly against Jehan's ear, causing a slight giggle at what presumably tickles. "You're the most stunning thing I've ever seen, or felt, or heard. I'd try to make up a new word for it, but I think we both know that I'd just embarrass myself."

"You wouldn't," Jehan murmurs.

"Oh, I would. You're the literary one, flower."

"Mm. Maybe we could make a word for it together, then."

"Maybe we should."

Jehan nuzzles into his collarbone, and he brings him in tightly again, holding onto him and praying that nothing would dare to be so cruel, so utterly invasive and twisted and sickening, as to ever rip them apart.

* * *

He deposits Jehan at his physics class ten minutes before it gets out, and resigns to wander about the hallways for the rest of the hour, seeing as there's really no point to dropping in only to be counted absent anyways. He's halfway on an abstracted journey to the men's bathroom when he runs nearly headfirst into Courfeyrac, whose dark eyes immediately catch with the smooth guilt of what's presumably his own skipping, before he processes who's standing before him.

"You're wet," he declares, as if the notion is the most delightful thing to ever cross his mind. "And playing the truant."

"So are you," Bahorel replies with raised eyebrows, his own words pertaining solely to the latter part of the statement.

"Yeah, I do it on occasion. Though I don't frolic about when it's practically thunderstorming outside." Their tones are hushed, and Courfeyrac grabs his arm, dragging him away from the occupied classroom door that they've paused outside of, then straightening and speaking with a bit more confidence. "Really, you look like you've just taken a dip in the Atlantic."

"Cute. I just decided to take a break, so Jehan and I went down to the corner." He adjusts the book bag slung over one arm and glances towards the ceiling, hating the way that Courfeyrac instinctively stiffens at the mention of the other man.

"—Oh. Is everything alright?"

"Of course everything's alright," he forces through gritted teeth, already regretting his choice to mention the subject that's still so sore for every member of the Amis. "Why the hell wouldn't it be?"

"Bahorel, come on. I'm allowed to be worried about him."

"Yeah, just—just don't right now, alright?" he implores, and a noisy nudge of self-hatred jerks at the back of his stomach, teasing away a layer of the golden haze that's materialized there over the past hour. He hates the cold pinch of reality, but attempts to shove it off only cause it to return with all the more ferocity, until it's tearing away at him. "I just... I'm happy right now, so do me a favor and don't get rid of that. I'm fine, and he's fine, and _we're _fine, and I just... want it to stay that way." He says it as if Courfeyrac is the only thing preventing them from such, and, after a hesitation, the other silently agrees to treat it that way, running a hand through his shock of dark, curly hair and shrugging, one of his signature grins settling into place.

"'Course. Glad to hear it's going good, then." He leans against a wall and reaches a hand to scratch absently at the back of his neck. "What're you skipping out on, then?"

"History, I think."

"You _think?" _

"Yeah, history." He doesn't say anything about how he hasn't gone to any of his classes for the past week and a half, about how that's more than enough detachment to begin calmly erasing the stressful schedule from his mind. "So, not much. You?"

"Nothing, actually. I don't have anything on Wednesdays. I'm just waiting for Combeferre, Enjolras has a message that I'm supposed to deliver."

"What, he can't text him?"

"Nope. Top-secret business, or _something _that he doesn't want out 'in the air.' Shit, I don't know. I'm not entirely sure Enjolras grasps the concept of private texts. It's like, in his mind, you've got technology, and you've got the internet, and then you've got people stalking the internet for any mention of political uprisings, and then they're all the _exact same thing, _right? So he's got to go with foot messengers. Hence my being here on a day when I'd really rather deny this damn place even exists." He gestures to himself with a shrug.

"Right. Great. Well, good luck, I should get to physics."

"Thought you had history?"

Shit, Jehan's the one with physics. _Focus, you idiot. _"That," he agrees. He has no intention to get to class, something which he's sure they're both perfectly aware of, but he's had enough talking for now. He wants to preserve the last traces of the golden sensation that still linger within him, and it's becoming quite clear that talking to Courfeyrac is far from the proper way to do as much. "See you at the Musain tonight, then."

"Sure," Courfeyrac agrees, and steps away as Bahorel strides past, his hands back to his pockets and his mind back to Jehan.

It's in that state, wandering the campus aimlessly, that he struggles to retain every last fragment of sensation from the last hour that he can. The rain-and-flowers scent, the striking warmth, the tickle of Jehan's laughter against his own lips... every thought burns through his mind with a ferocity unbefitting of their gentleness, and he holds onto them with all the strength he can muster, cursing himself with every step for being so weak in all the places where it really matters.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

If not for Jehan's insistence, Bahorel would have no intention of attending another of the Amis' meetings. The previous experience when he attempted to do so was jarring enough that he elects to keep his distance, and even Courfeyrac hasn't since contacted him with any sort of hope that he'll come. Enjolras certainly doesn't want him, and the rest probably aren't too keen on his presence, either—the alarm in Joly's eyes won't be leaving his mind anytime soon; nor will Bossuet's uncharacteristically fierce glare. None of them, so wrapped up in their illusions of impenetrable fraternity, have time for the upset of a man like him. For them, it's easier to deny that anything's wrong than to accept the realization of those flaws into their own inner circles, and he supposes he's no one to defy such an approach. He can almost envy them, for being able to abandon the chains of glaring reality with such apparent ease. God knows he wishes he could trash his own bonds.

In any case, he doesn't want to see them again. Yet Jehan does, and suggests in that wide-eyed, earnest way of his that it would mean worlds to him if Bahorel were to come along. Of course he can't turn that down, which is why they're outside of the Musain around ten o' clock the next Friday night, Bahorel's arm around Jehan's shoulders in an instinctive attempt to shield him from the murmur of mid-spring chill that nips resolutely at them.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" he checks, glancing down at the smaller form beside him. Jehan's eyes are wide, the light of the cafe's windows reflected in their pale blue glassiness as he nuzzles up further against Bahorel's shoulder, a small nod tilting his chin.

"I want to see them," he murmurs, "even if it is... hard."

Bahorel doesn't attempt to understand Jehan's definition of 'hard.' It could mean a million things, for surely this is a struggle in infinite variations of the term, challenging in just about every way possible. He knows that, and is proud of his boyfriend, in a way, for being able to fight past it. The Amis surely want to see him, or at least have convinced themselves that they do, even if their true allegiance still lies with naïveté. They'll feel less guilty, at least, by having seen him and talked to him properly before it's all over.

The word _over _jerks through Bahorel's stomach like a razor blade, and his breath stutters momentarily, enough cause for Jehan's expression to sharpen from contemplative to anxious. "Are you alright?" he checks, his fingers finding Bahorel's sleeve cuff.

"Yeah, when aren't I?" Somehow, he can still smile—he wonders if he ever won't be able to when Jehan is beside him, then chooses not to dwell on the topic, since it hurts just as much as everything else. He distracts himself by forcibly breaking through his uncertainty and shoving open the door of the Cafe Musain, shrugging smoothly through the crowds of late-night pub-goers who linger and roar about it now. He's headed for the room in the back, and manages to get there without much hindrance. The anxiety surging within him mounts higher and higher, but he knows that it's surely nothing compared to what Jehan must be feeling, and forces it into nothing with a heavy breath as he opens the door behind the back table and escorts Jehan into the secluded chamber reserved for les Amis de l'ABC.

The lights are warmer here, less neon and more flaming, emerging from electric fixtures with no small amount of dust hugging their bulbs. Unlike the frontal area of the cafe, this room hasn't been remodeled, and the stone fireplace set into the back wall at the building's initial construction is still in place, just now being coaxed into brightness by Courfeyrac and an iron poker. Beer bottles line the tables in a way that's comforting rather than repulsive, and the words flying between the gathered Amis are friendly, lighthearted, even punctuated by frequent laughter. Enjolras stands with his arms folded near the fireplace, his red sweater pulled tight around him and his features affixed into a carven scowl.

Everything about it is familiar, and yet the emotion that strikes Bahorel so fiercely is pained nostalgia more than relaxation. When he came before, the time he blew up at Enjolras, he was far too fixated on thoughts of Jehan to take anything else into account. And yet now, with the still-shivering poet at his side, there's nothing to be concentrated on other than the place itself, and the effect is a sweeping wave of raw emotion that can't strictly be identified as good or bad. He doesn't want to lose this. And even if they'll still be here, even if they remain as friendly and boisterous and idiotic as ever, it can't be the same without Jehan. Something will be thrown irrevocably out of balance, and the knowledge that the perfection aching at him now is waning away even as the clock above the mantel ticks towards 10:30 is nearly enough to strangle him in its vividness.

"Jehan!"

Feuilly is the first to notice, his freckled face splitting into a grin as he lays eyes on Bahorel's accompaniment. The rest are swift to follow, Courfeyrac's entire countenance lightening up as he swerves around from the fireplace with the poker waving rather hazardously, and even Enjolras's hard lips let up for a brief smile as he crosses the room and extends a hand to grip Jehan's shoulder.

"It's wonderful to see you on your feet again," he murmurs, and Jehan grins weakly, his light gaze sweeping over the rest of them.

"It's wonderful to be on them," he replies honestly, moving in a bit closer to Bahorel.

Enjolras glances up towards him, then, and his soft look stiffens in a way that's more wary than outright unfriendly. "You've bothered to rejoin us, then," he notes. Their eyes are locked, blue and green burning in like ferocity, and neither seem particularly keen on letting up. It is made clear that Bahorel is not entirely forgiven for his actions, but he doesn't care, figures he doesn't care about much anything Enjolras has to say or think about him at this point.

"Jehan wanted to come," he mutters in simple response, and Enjolras nods, stepping away again to make way for the others as they hasten about Jehan, congratulation and apologizing in twin amounts. Joly looks near tears, and Bahorel can't quite tell whether it's from relief or regret. All of the others, he supposes, are more than a little attached to the young poet, but that doesn't stop him from feeling a bit irritable as Jehan is eventually swallowed by the sparse but eager crowd. He resigns to stay as close by as possible, and chooses a table near the center of the room, snatching a beer bottle from atop the fireplace that he guesses to be Courfeyrac's before sitting down heavily.

It's going to be a long night, and probably one of those with little talk of revolution itself, but he decides that he doesn't care too much. It makes no difference. He's here no matter what, and he might as well take advantage of the fact to excuse an excessive consumption of alcohol—he's beginning to see, he thinks as he uncaps the bottle in a single fierce twist, why Grantaire is so attached to the poison. It's damn disgusting at the moment, of course, but its effect really is near magical. Twisted magic, but magic nonetheless, and he's grateful to be able to access it.

The minutes seep into hours, and he finds a couple more bottles purchased for him after the first is drained—initially, he can identify them as coming from Courfeyrac, who seemed sympathetic rather than offended upon discovery of the initial theft, but later on, as the light and noises of the late hours blur into a single heated, watery canvas, he's only reaching for what's in front of him, not questioning where it comes from. He keeps drinking. Far past what's reasonable, quelling every unwelcome thought with a larger gulp, until it's a struggle even for his strengthened body to handle, and he finds himself slipping slightly sideways even as he sits at the table, having to hold himself in place with an elbow on its surface. The fire dances and flickers, and the laughter around him trails away into the crackle of the flame, even Enjolras's determined words lapsing into unimportance.

He's long since lost count of the bottles by the time the others begin to depart with yawns and shrugs, a few hastening off alone, the rest peeling apart in pairs and swells. He doesn't really process the fact that they're properly disbanding until the door closes behind Enjolras, usually prone to staying behind far after the rest, and it strikes him that the room has gone silent.

He glances around blearily, Jehan ringing in his mind, but the figure that his eyes do fall upon is that of Grantaire, hunched over his own designated corner table with a wider count of empty bottles before him than Bahorel himself. His chin is propped in his hand, wide light eyes softly brooding where they aren't obscured by the curly strands of dark hair that slip from underneath the grasp of the red knit cap perched atop his head. Even to Bahorel's drink-dimmed mind, it couldn't be clearer that he's staring at the shut door, his thoughts undoubtedly fixated on the man so soon departed.

"Jehan," Bahorel mumbles to himself, as if the name will summon its bearer. The fire sinks lower, and the shadows paint a textured mural over the far wall, abstract shapes dancing in a pattern that's fleet and lagging both at once.

"He's gone," Grantaire replies, matter-of-fact, not even remotely surprised by Bahorel's slowness. His voice is clear even as he curls his lips around another bottleneck. After a long swig, he drops it onto the table and leans back, chin tilting towards the ceiling, arms wrapped loosely around himself. "He left with Courfeyrac, over an hour ago now."

"...Damn it." Bahorel turns back to his tabletop, and his own heavy breath unnerves him, as does the bitter taste so rampant in his mouth. The wood sways beneath him. _"Damn it_,_" _and somehow the words are pulling strings within him that he didn't know to exist, triggering a slight gag at the back of his throat and a burn behind his eyes, a lurch of his lungs that sets his whole body shaking. The reality around him, already sewn together so delicately, flies apart all at once, and then he's gasping, because all he can possibly think about is that he _let Jehan go, _that he slipped up and allowed himself to steep so long in his own horrid dismalness that he lost sight of the source of it all—and it doesn't matter that much, it can't, but Jehan left with Courfeyrac and he's here alone, and that somehow seems like the most horrific thing in the world, the worst treachery he could possibly commit against the man he claims to love.

He thinks Grantaire might say his name, but can't quite tell, what with the magnitude of the shivering that has clasped all of his senses. "Shit," he mumbles, not able to make his lips move fast enough, "shit, I let him go—" He knows he has to stand, to go after him, and he's on his feet then, but only for a second; the floor hasn't solidified with his intentions, and he's stumbling, would probably crash if not for the hand suddenly gripping his shoulder, holding him in place. It's not steady, far from it, but at least seems to be firmer than the wavering mess that he's tripped into, and he lets Grantaire guide him back to the chair, feels his head fall forward as his lungs ache and shudder.

"He'll be fine."

"Fuck. Fuck, he won't be fine, he's..." Why won't he be fine? There's a reason, there has to be a reason, this can't all come from nothing. When it hits him, he spasms, and his elbow hits the table, sending a heavy shock through his core. "He's _dying, _he—he needs me..."

"He'll live through the night." Grantaire's tone is bitter, somehow, and Bahorel's vision is hazy but clear enough to watch in mute wonder as the dark-haired man snatches up the half-empty bottle still set before him, taking a long swig as if it's his own. "They always do."

"Only—there's only one of him," Bahorel objects dimly. Nothing makes sense, and shit—shit, he feels awful. He wants to be able to hold Jehan, to duck under the sheets of their bed and entwine himself in the smaller man's arms and kiss away all his fears, but he can't, instead he's here in this low-lit dump of a pub with the most hopeless of his friends, cursing himself with every word he knows.

"One for each," Grantaire muses, and Bahorel doesn't even try to put sense to his words, decides that Grantaire is probably insane, anyways. He can't focus, in any case—his mind, torn so raggedly loose, is consumed by the heat that he suddenly feels all too material on his cheeks, streaking down unforgivingly. He can't remember the last time he's cried because of it, but of course he can't remember much anything right now. Regardless, the strength of the sobs seizes him, and it's all he can to do keep himself breathing, to blink away the blur of the tears long enough to reach across the table, to grip Grantaire by the front of the dark jacket and knock the bottle out of his hand and pull him up until their faces are inches away, until real alarm is conveyed in the wide blue eyes across from him—a blue so different from Jehan's, different even from Enjolras's; flat, dull, empty in a way that does everything to contradict the sparkling personality so often thrust forth from them.

"Why the _hell_," he slurs, the words laced together with the inarticulacy of his state, "do you know he's gonna be okay? You don't know—you don't know _anything. _You're the worst of us, you're even fucking lower than _I _am, and that's saying a lot, isn't it, that's saying a whole fucking lot—can't even—can't even tell _him_ that you're in love with him, can you? At least I can do that much, at least when Jehan dies he'll know that someone—"

Gasping sobs paralyze him again, and his fingers suddenly go numb, his mind buzzing because Jehan is dying, _Jehan is going to die _and there is nothing he can do, there is _nothing _he can do; no matter how loudly he screams and how hard he fights, it will be utterly and completely useless. He's shivering as Grantaire yanks away from his weakened clutch, faint moans falling like dripping blood from his lips, and he expects the other man to hate him for his words, to retaliate the aggressive action or just leave the room entirely, leave him alone. He can't decide which he prefers, whether he wants either. Neither is what he receives, however—somehow, inexplicably, Grantaire's response is only to settle properly into the chair beside him, to reach out and enfold one of Bahorel's shaking hands in both of his.

"I know it's... I know," he murmurs plainly, half-frowning as though fascinated by his own words. "You don't have to tell me. Don't tell them, either—don't even try, they don't care. You have to act like you're fine, and it's going to be impossible, but you've got to go and do it anyways, because it's the only way you can manage. Nothing's going to stop him dying, so don't waste your time thinking so. Just keep looking at him. See him while he's still there, and if you're lucky, you'll be gone before he is."

Impossibly, stupidly, irrationally, the words do provide some sort of comfort. Grantaire is probably the first person of them all who hasn't lied to him, and that's something solid, something to hold onto when everything around him is falling apart and shifting to ash.

The sounds of the fire are beginning to pulse, humming in and out in his words, and it suddenly strikes him just how exhausted he is, how warm it is even with the room empty. He groans, feeling the ghost of a headache snarl through the haziness that envelops him, and then his head is on his folded arms, and the tears are still coming but the sobs have stopped, so that he can breathe, long shuddering exhalations that probably stink of the beer that's tossing within him, raising a storm of nausea that he doesn't care about enough to be concerned for.

Grantaire doesn't let go of his trembling hand, and that's probably the only thing that keeps him from falling into pieces as the night takes its toll.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

It's Courfeyrac who makes the suggestion, apparently sees a flyer in the coffee shop that he's employed at and opts to call Bahorel with the suggestion one morning. He speaks in a rush, apparently eager at his own idea, and Bahorel, having just heaved himself out of bed at the still-unfamiliar trill of the new phone bought for him by this very caller, only makes out about half of the words hurried by him.

"I know it's not _really _your thing—well, either of yours, but I think he'll appreciate it—hate to break it to you, but he told me a couple of nights ago—you know, when I took him home because you were wasted as shit—he told me that he was worried about you, thought you didn't care about him as much as you used to or something, and it's not like I'm trying to shove this all on you now, but he was pretty upset, and in my opinion, an excellent way to prove him wrong would be to—"

"Just slow down for a moment, would you?" Bahorel interjects in a harsh whisper, hurrying out of the bedroom where Jehan is still curled under the covers. He runs a hand through his already wild gingery hair, causing it to stand on end, and tries to make some sense of the words being fired his direction. "He thought I… didn't care?"

"Dude, I think almost everyone thought that. You barely looked at him all night, and didn't notice when he said goodbye to you, either. It was pretty harsh."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Sure you didn't mean to. People never do, but the fact remains that you're pretty much turning into another Grantaire—"

"Grantaire's not all bad."

"Yeah, of course he's not. Who doesn't love the guy? No, wait up, I'll answer for you; Enjolras doesn't, and he's probably the only one that the poor sod _wants _the attention of, so how about you shut up and listen to what I'm trying to say before Jehan becomes your Enjolras."

The sun slants painfully through the kitchen window, and Bahorel frowns at it as though it's responsible for the heavy weight that Courfeyrac's words are forming in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't want to hear this, but he also knows that it would be nothing short of idiotic to hang up the phone now—entirely useless, in any case. He has to be strong enough to take these reprimands as they're given. If he's causing a problem, he needs to be responsible for settling it.

_Especially, _the now-familiar nasty snarl at the back of his mind fires up, _if you have a limited amount of time to._

"Okay—okay, so, what? I pay more attention to him? I don't get drunk around him? Shit, I…" He leans against the wall, gazes at the microwave. It's just past eight, according to the plain digital numerals. "Just tell me what to do, Courf, and I'll try to. I don't want to be _bad _to him…"

"Shut up, I'm not asking you to go all angst-ridden boyfriend on me, alright? I'm not calling to bemoan your romantic skills, I'm calling you to fix them. Like I said, I'm staring at this flyer, and it says there's some sort of pride parade thing going on day after tomorrow. It starts outside of the shop here and goes for a few miles, and it looks like it's going to be a pretty ridiculous thing—hell, the paper has little multicolored balloons printed in the corners, okay? So go get Jehan and tell him that the two of you are going to this rainbow fest thing, be all soppy about it—don't deny that he loves that—and then do it."

"Are you giving me dating advice?" Bahorel mumbles, his gaze rising to the ceiling.

"Yeah, because I've known him longer than you and I know that this sunny little bonanza is the perfect thing to convince him that you aren't getting tired of him. I said it before and I will again: it's neither of your styles, but you're both going to have a blast. So do it."

Bahorel can't help but doubt the validity of Courfeyrac's insistences, but he can't exactly turn him down, not when he's behaving in so determined a manner. Besides, he _could_ be right—and if Jehan has been feeling neglected, then there's really no choice to the matter. He's got to do anything he can to fix it, and as absurd as the suggestion may be, he's willing to at least give it a try.

"Alright… I'll ask him, I suppose." He pauses in his already hushed speech as a creak stirs the hallway, and moments later a sleep-muddled Jehan wanders in, light hair tangled and matted over his robed shoulders, the palm of one hand rubbing at his half-closed eyes. He glances up to see Bahorel and smiles tiredly. Bahorel finds himself returning it, offering a silent wave as he murmurs a few closing words to Courfeyrac.

"Yeah, I'll make sure to. Thanks."

"You'd better. And if you're about to hang up on me, I swear to—"

He hits end and sets the phone on the counter, suddenly aware from his lack of pockets that he's wearing nothing but the boxer shorts in which he typically goes to bed. Scratching the back of his head a bit self-consciously, he grins wider and offers Jehan a proper greeting.

"Hey, flower. Sleep well?"

"Mm… sort of. Who was that?" The thin blonde wanders over to the coffee cabinet and opens it, fingers wandering along for the sole box of teabags shoved within it.

"Oh, just Courfeyrac being his usual chatty self. You know how he is."

"Yeah."

His words are briefer, terser than usual, and Bahorel, now with the exposition of Courfeyrac's warning, is painfully aware of the fact that Jehan is treating him almost coldly. He attempts to behave ignorantly, though, deciding that to react in a defensive manner will only spark more definite tension between them.

"So, there's something I've been meaning to ask you about," he half-lies, keeping his tone light as Jehan sets water boiling and sits back against the counter for a moment, hugging his light robe more firmly around his shoulders and retracting his hands into the sleeves. Bahorel, noticing as he does, frowns in concern, his former train of speech cutting off. "You cold?"

Jehan shakes his head. "Keep talking."

"—Okay, if you're sure. Well, in a couple of days there's this… this pride fest thing, just going for a few blocks a bit further downtown, and I was wondering if you'd go with me."

Jehan exhales heavily, his chin tilting upwards as his pale blue eyes fixate on the ceiling. His profile is delicate against the sunlight, breathtakingly youthful and far from sick-looking. "You're so transparent," he murmurs, golden lashes coasting in a slow, nearly doe-like blink.

"Sorry?"

"You sound _stilted. _It's okay if Courfeyrac suggested it, you know. I don't mind that you…"

"That I what?" He can practically feel the air heating between them, but tries his best to keep the words measured. A slight breath of steam begins to leak from the lid of the plastic water boiler, but neither of them makes a move towards it.

"That you can't bother to come up with anything yourself."

His stomach jolts. "Jehan, please—"

"I mean it. I don't mind. I wouldn't expect you to."

Each word drives like an iron wedge in between Bahorel's ribs. He's too tired for this—too tired and too anxious already; the absolute last thing in the world he needs is Jehan becoming angry at him, even passively so, but it would appear that the bullshit concept of fate has really had it out for the two of them lately.

"Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. The boiler begins to whistle, and he hurries over to it, flicking its power off in a single sharp motion. Jehan still doesn't look away from the ceiling. "Okay, I've been shitty lately. I know I have, and it's my fault, and I—I won't do it anymore, okay? Flower—Jehan—I love you. You know that. I don't want to hurt you, and I'm so sorry that I'm awful at showing it."

Jehan swallows, then sighs, a motion that trembles through the whole of his slender frame. He drops his arms to his sides and straightens up, and, to Bahorel's relief, when their eyes meet, his are far from icy. Rather, they're a soft sort of sky-blue, searching, nearly desperate—but not upset, at least certainly not at the man they're settled upon. His lips quirk into an apologetic half-smile, and he nods, a few golden strands falling from their position tucked behind his ears. "Okay," he agrees, his voice so expressly tender that it twists Bahorel's stomach more severely than any of his sharper words.

"Come here," Bahorel sighs, turning fully away from the stove, and Jehan doesn't hesitate before stepping over, nestling into the embrace offered. His forehead presses into Bahorel's shoulder, and Bahorel secures his arms around the smaller man, holding him as tightly as he can without feeling as though he'll shatter him. He exhales, pressing his lips into the light golden tangle of Jehan's hair, and breathes him in. He smells no sicker than he looks, and it strikes him, not for the first time, that this is so goddamned _unfair, _that Jehan Prouvaire is the last person on Earth who deserves to be assaulted by this disgusting biological anomaly, this disease that everyone despises the very name of.

"I thought, a few times," Jehan mumbles into his shoulder after a minute or two of silence, "that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And now I get to. So I suppose one of my biggest wishes was granted… maybe I should be grateful for that."

The words are so pure, so genuinely thoughtful, that Bahorel feels the immediate rear of tears at the back of his eyes. He blinks hastily, staring at the window without seeing a shade of the sunlight, and feels a surge of gratefulness that Jehan can't see his face now. "Yeah," he replies thickly, and his voice cracks slightly, so that he has to swallow and cough before continuing. "Talk about silver linings."

Laughter trembles against him, and he's aware all at once that it's accompanied by dampness, and that he's blind to Jehan's expression, as well. Wracked by anxiety, he pulls back, his hands moving to cup the delicate face across from him. Sure enough, there are tear trails painting Jehan's cheeks, enough that he must have been silently crying for some time now, without Bahorel's awareness.

"Shit—God, shit, I'm sorry," he gets out, stiffening, one hand running repeatedly along the side of Jehan's head as the other shakily attempts to wipe away the salty moisture. "I'm sorry, I—"

"No, don't apologize," Jehan mumbles, ducking his head. "I don't mean to get emotional, it's…"

"Don't mean to get _emotional? _I—listen to yourself, you're—no, just… it's alright. It's wonderful to get emotional. By all means, cry your heart out, you deserve the chance to, and I'm so sorry if I haven't made it seem like that—" He remembers Courfeyrac's words—_he told me he was worried about you, he was pretty upset—_and it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn't seen Jehan cry at all, not since the diagnosis, and that it's probably no accident, that his boyfriend has likely instead turned to others, found Bahorel to be unreceptive to what surely must be tearing him apart from the inside out more than physiologically. And he hates himself more than ever, because _how could he let this happen? _How could he turn away, close himself off when it matters most?

"You've been fine," Jehan laughs through his tears, shaking his head, "you've been all I could ask for. I'm sorry—"

"Don't you apologize, either," Bahorel whispers, "don't you _dare." _And, thoughtlessly, because he's aching and he needs this and perhaps they both do, he leans in and steadies Jehan's trembling lips with his own, drawing a light gasp that quickly melts into a gentle response. Jehan's hands lift to twine behind Bahorel's neck, and they remain that way, wound in each other and stained by the sunlight and the now-mutual tears as the water behind them grows cold once again. The sound of Jehan's light breaths is surely the sweetest thing he's ever heard, and, once again, he is reminded in a heavy swerve that they won't last forever, that there is a definite limit to their delicate existence, and that it could come any time, roar out of the relative peace, that they're now only in the eye of the storm.

He cannot comprehend losing him. He can't.

Several shaky minutes later, Jehan pulls away, his hands releasing Bahorel's shoulders, one moving to clear away the loose strands of hair tangled over his face while the other busies itself with wiping away the tears blotching his cheeks. Bahorel clears his throat and hastily clears the moisture staining his own face with the heel of his hand, turning back to the water boiler and quickly tapping against its side. Sure enough, it's still warm, and he hurries over to remove two mugs from the cabinet, dropping them on the counter and retrieving a second teabag before pouring water into each of them.

"You don't like tea," Jehan half-sniffles as he drops the bags in.

"I'll manage," he replies, offering one of them up. Jehan accepts it, fingers tight enough around the ceramic that it must burn, and holds it to his chest as though clinging to the heat. "It's not awful."

"Not awful," Jehan agrees, gazing into the clear swirls of water as the golden brown essence of the bag begins to diffuse through them.

What he said was true, of course—Bahorel despises tea, plain as it is. There's quite simply no appeal to hot water permeated by the stink of dead leaves, but he doesn't want to prepare his usual cup of coffee, is reluctant to create any more distance between them even through petty differentiations.

Another couple of minutes wander by—it's eight-thirty, now, and Bahorel finds himself quite grateful that it's Sunday morning, and that they don't have anywhere else to be. No plans for the rest of the day, then—though he hasn't forgotten what Courfeyrac said, and, with that in mind, he should probably ask Jehan if there's anything he'd like to do, rather than allowing nothingness to swallow what promises to be a perfectly nice day.

Thoughts of Courfeyrac, additionally, bring to mind the initial subject, and he opts to voice it just as Jehan takes his first sip of his tea, which has apparently reached an adequate steeping point. "I'll tell Courf that we don't need to do his stupid parade thing, then."

"No—no, let's do it," Jehan objects, to his surprise. He doesn't meet Bahorel's eyes, but rather continues to stare contemplatively into his mug.

"Really?"

"Why not?"

"Well… no reason, I guess. I wouldn't really think you'd be into it, but if you want to—well, sure, I'm willing. It's Tuesday, then—in the afternoon, I think, or else I guess we'll be skipping classes."

"I don't mind."

"Alright." For no particular reason, Bahorel finds himself smiling, and takes the moment to down a long sip of his own tea. Sure enough, it's tastelessly bitter, almost sour in its potent disgustingness, and he struggles not to wince as he swallows. He's got no idea how Jehan can stand the stuff, but also supposes it's not really his place to question the preferences of the man who probably has a much more refined sense of taste than he does. "Tuesday, then," he half-coughs, setting the mug on the counter with a finality that communicates clearly to them both that he won't be having any more. Jehan rolls his eyes, but it's a fond expression rather than an annoyed one.

"Yeah. Tuesday."

The thought is somehow a nice one—even if, as Courfeyrac made sure to state his knowledge of, Bahorel really couldn't care less for big innocent social events, Jehan really does seem interested, and he'll be glad to see him happy.

—_Especially considering that there's a limited amount of time left to—_

But no, no, _no, _he won't think about that right now, he _can't. _So he keeps talking, hoping somehow to drown out the awful internal words with bright external ones. "What about today, then? Feel up to doing anything in particular? We could go out to lunch later, if you feel like, walk down to that sandwich shop… or, I don't know, do you want to—"

"Before we make any plans," Jehan interjects with a wry smile, placing one hand on the counter and tilting his head to the side as he leans into it, "just give me a minute to get dressed. You might want to put some clothes on, yourself," he adds, and Bahorel is once more reminded that he's wearing nothing but boxers.

He grins a bit bashfully and nods, casting one last sour glance at the tea mug before turning to head to the bathroom. "I'm gonna shower first, alright?"

Jehan takes a last long swig, then steps forward to set his own mug beside Bahorel's, the handles clinking together. "Mind if I join you?"

Bahorel's eyebrows raise, accompanied by the emergence of a wide grin, and Jehan huffs and swats at him indignantly.

"I mean _really _shower, I need to!"

"Oh, well, in _that _case…" he begins playfully, but is cut off as Jehan snatches his wrist and leads him to the bathroom in half a skip, laughter falling from his lips. "Yeah," he gets out, a light coast of almost childish joy trembling through him. "Of course you can, flower—of course you can."


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

"I look ridiculous," Jehan sighs, but he's grinning as he breaks Bahorel's gaze, directs his eyes instead towards the long stretch of light pavement glittering below them. His hair is held back from his face in a loose braid, but a few unshakable strands still dangle in his eyes, pale gold over the bright colors laid over his cheeks. The very start of the parade housed a few people with jars of paint and eager expressions, urging passerby to decorate themselves, and Bahorel, taking Courfeyrac's advice to behave as over-the-top as possible, urged Jehan to participate, at only the price of doing so himself. So it is that they now both have vivid rainbow hues striping their cheeks, matching the bright flags and banners that surround them. The day is perfectly sunny, and Bahorel has cast aside all of his self-consciousness to instead be consumed by childish cheeriness.

"Of course you don't. You're gorgeous," he laughs, playfully mussing the top of Jehan's head. He's rewarded by a yelp of protest and a duck out of the way, though it's punctuated by a few helpless giggles.

"Stop it," Jehan urges, straightening his thrown-askew braid.

"Sorry, princess."

"Haven't I told you not to call me that?"

"Haven't you noticed that I don't listen?"

Jehan rolls his eyes and lets out a very un-princess-like snort, turning towards the street, which has been cordoned off from traffic to allow for the flood of noisy people beginning to fill it. "Come on, let's get moving."

"No rush, is there?" Despite his words, Bahorel follows Jehan as he steps off the curb and into the street, nervously beginning to merge with the rest of the crowd. He looks shy, and not nearly as boisterous as some of the others; his casual clothing, additionally, is quite subdued in comparison to some of the skimpy getups that many of the rest are dressed in. It's a relatively relaxed event, and the hordes of people, though noisy, do seem a bit calmer than he might have expected. It's cheerful without being intimidating, and Bahorel is completely comfortable as he slings an arm around Jehan's shoulders and starts down the boulevard in the current of the rest.

"It's nice, though, isn't it?" Bahorel prompts, his eyes tracing a bunch of multicolored balloons as they lose themselves into the sky. They wander about in several different directions, winding into the perfect light blue expanse, and their spread communicates a sense of such absolute freedom, release, that Bahorel feels a lightening in his own chest, distancing him from the weight of everyday life. Here, surrounded by other people who shove aside their troubles for a few brief hours of celebration, awash in the light and warmth and color of what seems to be a perfect springtime, he feels content. The truth, the damning truth that seemed so coldly near in the stark white hospital rooms, has never felt more distant.

"It is nice," Jehan agrees with a sigh, and leans up against him, reaching down so that his fingertips trail along the back of Bahorel's wrist. A second later, their hands wind tightly together and twist, and they're holding onto each other with a ferocity unbefitting of the careless atmosphere, but Bahorel doesn't care, because the slight pain that twinges in his wrist is irrelevant to the delight coursing through him.

"It feels so... _welcoming,_" Jehan murmurs, a small smile taking hold of his lips as he scans the others around them. Some are confidently wandering along on their own, while others meander in proud pairs—two women, two men, and just about everything in-between. It's true, Bahorel thinks, though he doesn't voice it. The two of them have always been accepted without a thought among the Amis, most of who couldn't be less bothered by their shared gender, but it is far too easy to recognize, when thrust into the rest of the world, just how unwelcome they may be to some people.

Here, however, acceptance is as warm as the air itself, and though Bahorel is typically undeterred by whatever ridiculous homophobia may be thrust in his face, he can't deny that this really is a relief even to his usual uncaring attitude. He can relax here, and he knows that Jehan feels the same as the smaller man sighs and tilts his head into Bahorel's shoulder, swinging their joined arms slightly as they move on down the sunny street. Energetic pop music is radiating from a few speakers set on the sidewalks, and it's more ambient than deafening, winding through the background and casually overlaid by the loud exclamations and chatter of those around them. A few conversations are being shared, while other people elect to simply stroll in silence, Bahorel and Jehan generally among them, though they occasionally exchange a few soft words.

"I wonder if they have food at any point," Jehan murmurs now, lifting his chin in a futile attempt to see past the swathes of people lining the street, trying to make out any sort of refreshment stands ahead.

"Why? You hungry?" Bahorel questions. It's probably early afternoon by now, and they did have a relatively early and small breakfast—damn, he should have thought of this; of course they wouldn't be able to make it the whole way on a few slices of toast.

"Mm, just a bit. Don't worry about it."

"I don't want you to be unhappy, though," Bahorel objects, concern welling within him. "Maybe there'll be a restaurant somewhere up here, then we could stop in and just grab a sandwich or something. I'm sure this thing will keep going on long enough for a quick break," he adds, glancing over his shoulder, where all number of people are continuing to move from behind him, as far as he can see down the next block or two.

"It really is quite a turn-up, isn't it?" an animated voice interrupts. He turns back to see a very familiar gangly, dark-haired figure pulling up in front of him, hands shoved in his jeans pockets and a wide grin spread across his face.

Courfeyrac is far less subtle than them—he's wearing a rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt in what might be a woman's cut, with vibrant green skinny jeans underneath that seem to practically glow in the sunlight. Though he dons no face paint, his inky curls are strewn with multicolored ribbons that look as though they've been thoughtlessly woven in by someone else, an assumption backed by the appearance of a couple of wide-eyed young men who hasten to his sides, one grasping his hand and the other leaning up against his shoulder as he continues to stride backwards.

"Your ribbons are coming out," the first, a thin ginger-haired boy with light green eyes, scolds, reaching out to tuck one curly dark strand behind Courfeyrac's ear.

"Hm, are they? Sorry, sweet, it's a bit breezy out."

Bahorel raises his eyebrows, unable to suppress a snort at the apparent flock gathering around his friend. "Got some fans, there?" he half-teases.

"Oh, I'm meeting all _sorts _of people!" he responds enthusiastically. "Like I said, bigger turn-up than I expected, and a bunch of quite lovely young men and ladies and the like, at that. Wouldn't you say so, darling?" he adds to his second shadow, a soft-faced youth with curly blonde locks rather reminiscent of Enjolras's.

"Yes, yes, absolutely!" he agrees eagerly, and it's incredibly obvious that he's dazzled by Courfeyrac—that they both are, and Bahorel is torn between laughing and wincing at the knowledge that they're bound not to get much anywhere with him; for a hopeless flirt, he's never actually known his friend to get into a proper relationship. Courfeyrac seems to generally prefer solitude, with the company of the several cats who share his apartment and perhaps the occasional partner over for a night or two.

"Anyways," Courfeyrac goes on, shaking himself slightly free of the pining duo, "what do you think?"

"Oh, it's great," Bahorel agrees, glancing around at the sea of people around them. "Thanks for bullying me into coming."

Courfeyrac's thin eyebrows arch and his gaze flickers over to Jehan, who smiles wryly.

"Yes, he told me it was your idea."

"Wow, that's a bit counterproductive," he muses, scowling in Bahorel's direction. "Don't you ever listen to a word I say?"

"Sure, but I'm awful at lying."

"And it's a good thing he told me the truth," Jehan continues primly, slanting a faint glare of his own towards Courfeyrac. "You shouldn't tell him to say things that aren't true. It's only going to upset both of us."

"Don't seem upset now, do you? And you're here now," Courfeyrac points out, apparently unperturbed by the accusation. "Anyways, glad to hear you're doing well. I should probably get going, though—I heard Feuilly is here somewhere, and maybe Grantaire, if he was listening to me at all."

"Yeah, like Grantaire would ever show up somewhere like this."

"Hey, he might!" he objects, though it's pretty clear that he doubts the possibility just as much as Bahorel does. As good a person as Grantaire really does seem to be turning out to be, his nice qualities don't make it any less doubtful that he'd appear someplace like this. The chances are more likely that he's at the Musain or elsewhere now, probably drinking and quite possibly gambling—a fairly direct inverse correlation seems visible with his mood to the weather; on a bright, sunny day like this, he's likely to feel the most dismal, probably retreating even from his usual social haunts and brooding in solitude.

Bahorel doesn't want to think about that now, though—he's surrounded by light and music and enthusiasm and he's going to allow himself to be happy, _force _himself to be happy no matter what, because he can't afford anything else. So he nods and bids a brief farewell to Courfeyrac, as does Jehan.

"I think there are only a few more blocks—enjoy the rest!" the dark-haired man waves, then whisks around and starts ahead, shooting a quite unnecessary "you two coming?" towards those behind him, who hurry after even without his bidding.

"Well, I'm glad to see he's enjoying it," Jehan laughs slightly. Bahorel grins down at him, his heart convulsing at the pure liveliness alight in his delicate features. However, it dissolves a few seconds later, making way for a slight frown that contrasts with the light surging about them. Bahorel follows his gaze, worry rearing up within him once more, and his eyes soon settle upon the source of his boyfriend's concern.

At the edge of the street, planted there as if in intentionally contrasting juxtaposition, is a small knot of stony-faced men and women, their arms heavy with wide black-and-white signs that are practically laughable in pathetic comparison to the multicolored banners sailing over everyone else. Bahorel doesn't even need to make out the specific block words to know quite well what they say, and he groans in disgust.

"Is that _really _necessary?" he demands, raising his voice so that the protesters can hear. Jehan exhales heavily.

"Just ignore them..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, it's ridiculous. It's none of your goddamn business!" he shouts, and earns a hardening of the protesters' glares, while the other members of the parade laugh and cheer him on. Jehan's jaw tightens.

"Please, don't..."

"What? Don't tell them that they're being assholes? Because they—"

"I don't want you to get into a fight right now, okay? Just—just this once, please don't."

"Fight?" he echoes, then the concern in his tone morphs into humor, narrowing to a gentle laugh. "Aw, come on, flower, they're too stuffy to shout back at me, let alone actually pull out their fists. Here—here, nonviolent protest."

"What?" Jehan asks, confusion flitting over his features as Bahorel unlaces their fingers and takes him by the shoulders instead, spinning him around until they're standing face to face, causing a slight blockage in the crowd that isn't objected to in the slightest.

"Let's show those jerks," Bahorel breathes, then ducks in and moves his hands to Jehan's jaw, tilting slightly and kissing him as hard and fierce as he possibly can. The immediate response is a slight squeak, and then anxious hands move to loop around his own shoulders, and Bahorel can hear the cheers of those around them far overwhelming the hisses of disgust from the protesters.

"There," he chuckles against Jehan's lips, awash in the light warmth of the sunshine bathing them both, lightheaded from his impulsivity and giddy with the overwhelming positivity of the myriad people and colors around them. "If they think there's something wrong with that, then I don't know what the hell's wrong with them."

"You're ridiculous," Jehan shoots back, but he's grinning as they pull apart and step strongly past the clump of defiance, melting back into the crowd that's now moving up towards what seems to be the end of the stretch, yet more flags and balloons gathered around the final point.

"It's good to be ridiculous every once in a while," Bahorel replies brightly. He scans the mulling crowd around where the parade concludes, trying to make out Courfeyrac or Feuilly or even Grantaire, but all the faces that meet his stare are unfamiliar. It's no matter, really—he didn't expect to meet anyone they knew, and the sole encounter with Courfeyrac was pleasantly surprising enough. "Now, do you want to try and find food?"

"Think they have any?"

"It looks like there are a few booths up here... probably something to drink, too." He's thirsty, but at the same time, there's that softly lingering rosy taste on his lips from the exuberant kiss, and he's not particularly keen on washing it away anytime soon.

"Do you have any money?" Jehan checks, glancing around at the stands up. Bahorel follows his gaze and observes that there are indeed a number of food and drink setups.

"There should be something..." He dips a hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a wad of crumpled but workable bills. "Yeah, we're set. Where do you want to start?"

"Mm... look, there's lemonade!"

"What, are you a lemonade fan?" Bahorel questions, pulled by the hand once more clasped in Jehan's as the smaller man hurries ahead of him, his braid trailing in the air behind him as he half-skips towards the winding line outside of what does indeed appear to be a lemonade stand.

"What's wrong with lemonade?"

"Nothing, I just... thought you were more one for iced tea."

"Lemonade's good every so often," Jehan replies matter-of-factually. "Can't have it too often, though, or it starts tasting too sour."

"Is that so?"

"It is," he confirms, beaming. Bahorel laughs, and is about to reach out and fluff up that golden hair again when he remembers Jehan's objection from before, and suffices to instead twine his free fingers through the braid. The golden light is soft on Jehan's creamy skin, giving it a warm sort of glow, and his hair is illuminated in metallic strands like pale tinsel. He's breathtakingly lovely, and Bahorel is momentarily distracted by the pure innocent beauty of him, figures that there isn't another face in the world so absolutely gorgeous.

"Alright, then," he breathes, no longer quite remembering what he's talking about. Jehan blinks, light lashes momentarily flickering over his wide blue eyes, and Bahorel realizes that he's smiling stupidly, almost drunkenly. He shakes his head and starts to turn away, but soft fingers on his stubble-roughened jaw stop him, turning him back to gaze down at Jehan.

"Just let me look at you for a second," the smaller man murmurs.

"You can see me any time you want, flower."

"I want to make sure I know you perfectly. So that no matter where I go... I remember what you look like. It's the... most important thing there is."

His words cause a sharp twisting sting in Bahorel's stomach, previously so aglow with euphoria, and their gaze breaks as his own stare falls to the pavement between them. As hard as he tries not to back Jehan's words with meaning, he knows the point of them exactly, and he hates it—he doesn't want them ever to be separated, doesn't want Jehan to go somewhere that he can't follow. He hates this, hates the distance that's clearly between them despite their physical proximity; already, Jehan is slipping away from his grasp, intentionally distancing himself from reality so as to be better prepared for the inevitable. And Bahorel detests it, wants to be able to hold onto him and force him to stay, keep them together for infinity.

"Don't look down," Jehan chides, "please... your eyes are the most important part."

So he forces them up again, the smile now entirely gone from his features, and is once more captivated by the fragile fairness of the face across from him.

"So green... they're so green. It's the nicest green I've ever seen, did you know that? Better than any sort of gem... or forest..."

Each word seems to strike deeper into his heart, and so, with a heavy heave of breath that's almost a gasp, he breaks away, stepping back so that Jehan's hands fall from his side, a frown staining his forehead and darkening his own sky-hued eyes.

"Come on, we're blocking the line," he mutters, though nobody seems to be upset by it—in fact, there are several other couples around them holding each other in a similar manner, though they all seem to be smiling, and he highly doubts that the soft words between them hold any of the weight that Jehan's did.

"Bahorel..."

"Lemonade, right?" he mutters, and pretends he doesn't notice how Jehan's formerly tender expression closes off slightly. He can't focus on that right now. And so he forces himself into the line without another word, drowning himself once more in the light and the sounds and the colors, and hoping desperately that it's enough to keep reality at bay.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

The rest of the afternoon passes in lazy leisure, and Bahorel pretends not to notice the fact that Jehan's smiles never quite regain their full sunny extent. There's enough light and warmth flooding the plaza and streets, anyways, and he lets himself absorb it completely until there's no room for doubt. Of course, it finds a place to linger within him anyways, but he strives to ignore it, to instead keep talking, keep smiling and laughing and allowing himself to consider nothing but Jehan.

The festivities carry on as the sun winds its way across the arching, cloud-studded sky, and it's not until around six that those gathered finally disperse in the name of dinner and other duties. Jehan and Bahorel, after bidding a final farewell to Courfeyrac, whom they've managed to relocate lingering about with the addition of three or four more young men and one wide-eyed girl, head home on their own, both of their steps misleadingly light, awash in a silence that Bahorel sorely hopes to be companionable.

He orders dinner from a nearby sandwich joint without a word, and eating is likewise a quiet affair, with both of them perched by the kitchen table. Jehan spends most of the time with his wide blue eyes fixated on the window beside them, chin resting in one contemplative hand, and Bahorel, in turn, is watching Jehan. There's a faintly melancholy shade to the poet's stare, and though he seems to be quite intent upon the cars streaking back and forth on the street, he's surely lost in thought, removed far beyond anything set physically before him. By the time Bahorel delivers his own dishes to the sink, Jehan's sandwich is practically untouched, and worry is beginning to gnaw within him once more.

"Hey," he murmurs, pacing the small distance between them and extending his hands to settle them on Jehan's thin shoulders. There's a momentary start of surprise, then the muscles beneath him slowly relax as a sigh escapes Jehan's lips. He leans back, his head tilting against Bahorel's forearms, and soft chills extend from the point of contact.

"You should eat," Bahorel urges. "Not like you can get any skinnier."

"Not hungry," Jehan replies, his voice barely audible. One of his delicate-fingered hands lifts slowly, almost absentmindedly, to settle upon Bahorel's wrist. Both of them gaze out the window for an interminable number of minutes, green and blue likewise watching the glass as the light stained across it shifts from dark gold to purpled umber. They don't talk—don't need to talk, though the thoughts between them are most certainly not shared; Jehan's mind is a mystery.

Bahorel, for once, is not worrying. Despite his rather characteristic lack of appetite, Jehan has had a good day—a good day, and a good week before. He's doing alright. Better than alright. Today, despite the few catches, was pleasant, and, being here now with nothing between or around the two of them save the silence of the evening-dappled kitchen, he is content. If things were his way, he thinks, it would always be like this.

Jehan's smile, caught in the sunshine of the parade, flashes through his mind again, and he squeezes the shoulders below him a bit more firmly, signaling that he intends to pull away. The fingers on his wrist cinch before releasing him, surprisingly fierce, but he opts to shrug off the strange intensity.

"Let's go to bed," Bahorel offers, and his own voice is softer than he believes he's ever heard it, so gentle and tender that he himself is caught unaware.

"It's only eight."

"Long day," he replies, trailing his fingertips along the fall of Jehan's golden hair. "Come on—if you're not going to eat, you should at least get some rest."

"…Alright." The chair, screeching softly against the tiled floor as it's pushed away from the table, is a louder noise than any that's permeated the stillness of the kitchen since Bahorel dumped his dishes, and they both stiffen slightly at the disturbance. "I'm going to shower first, okay?"

He hesitates as Jehan turns to face him, and it once more overcome by the absolute pure beauty of the delicate features—soft lips, clear cheeks, wide eyes, light lashes—set across from him. Jehan is more gorgeous, more fair than any fairytale princess, and the nickname so often invoked feels suddenly cheap—it doesn't do him justice. Isn't worth his possession, and Bahorel quite suddenly realizes that he isn't, either—that he is so much lower than this fragile being whom he has somehow managed to find himself with.

_I'm going to shower first, okay? _

"Yeah," he gets out, his mouth numb as he looks away, hands finding their way back to his pockets. "Sure. I'll be in bed."

He turns away and heads for the hallway, footsteps noisy, before he can see Jehan's response.

It's fifteen minutes later that he's rejoined in their bedroom, and Jehan's figure is small in the doorframe, his blonde locks stained dark with dampness. A damp towel is tied around him, light steam still drifting from it, and his expression is tentative, almost shy as he approaches the bed.

"Hey." Bahorel, watching with his arms folded across the pillow and his cheek resting upon them, watches him with a faint smile, and it's quickly returned as Jehan closes the difference between them.

"Hi. Sorry—sorry that took so long," he mumbles, reaching up to comb a few stray strands away from his eyes. By now, he's at the bedside, and Bahorel reaches up to assist him, only preoccupied for a second with the wet hair before his fingers instead curl around Jehan's, pressing against his palm.

"It was fine," he breathes. "Not too long."

"Okay… good."

Bahorel scoots back, then, lifting the edge of the blanket in a gentle invitation, and Jehan lets the towel fall to the floor in a warm, moist heap before slipping underneath. The shower water still clings to his skin, and the fresh scent of shampoo emanates softly from his hair. Bahorel immediately curls an arm around his shoulders, disregarding the dampness, and leans in until they're a hair's breadth apart, each other's eyes the only thing visible.

There's a stir beneath the sheets, and then Jehan's slender arm emerges, light fingertips wandering up to trace along Bahorel's jaw and mouth, soft enough that he finds himself shivering slightly. An almost lazy grin tugs at Jehan's lips as he traces the curve of Bahorel's own thoughtless smile, and his wide eyes glitter in the semidarkness, the only light source being the lamp that the curve of his shoulder obscures.

"I don't ever want to lose you," Jehan tells him simply. "Don't let me."

"Of course not."

"Never."

"Never."

He won't say the converse, won't implore Jehan to stay with him for as long as life allows. It is too cruel, even to consider. Jehan sighs softly, his sweet breath the only sound, and so mild that Bahorel feels a stab behind his lungs alongside it, suspending his own exhalations, utterly enraptured.

"I want to stay with you," Jehan continues, his palm now cupping the curve of Bahorel's jaw. "Do impossible things with you."

"How impossible?"

"Anything. The most ridiculous thing you can think of. Learn magic."

"Magic, huh?"

"Yes. Dreams. I want to—I want to make dreams real, with you. I want us to defy reality together. Defy the oppression, and the revolution, and everything in-between—escape. I want to run away from it all, and I want you to be with me."

"That's a lot of wants, flower."

"So I'm selfish."

"I wouldn't have you any other way."

Jehan's eyes half-close, and his breathing levels out, thumb now wandering around Bahorel's neck, nails running lightly along the heated skin. He is limp on the pillow, as if he's asleep already, but blue still gleams beneath his light golden eyelashes, vivid in shadow. "Impossible things," he repeats, drawing the words out as though he doesn't know their meaning, is merely voicing phrases from a foreign language that he finds somehow beautiful.

"Of course I will. I'll do every impossible thing that we can ever come up with." The words spilling forth in such a sudden fevered rush are nonsensical, but he doesn't care, because he means them. Cradled beneath the sheets now, with only the glow of the lamp and the moisture of the shower, the heat of their bodies and the pace of their breath, he feels as though he could—could make dreams come true, could pursue his wildest fantasies, for surely, in having Jehan within his arms now, he is already halfway there.

"All of them?"

"All of them. But, for now…" His own hand drifts along Jehan's neck until it reaches his shoulder, tracing patterns along the warm, damp skin. "For now, let this be enough."

He needs not say a single word more. Without another syllable uttered between them, Jehan's wandering fingers reach up to tangle fiercely in his hair, and Bahorel clutches him and pulls him in and savors his gasp, and nothing else matters.

* * *

The retching wakes him.

Several hours later, and he's been up till now immersed in the most peaceful sleep he's received in weeks, dozing in the wreath of warm blankets with his arm wrapped loosely around Jehan's shoulders as the smaller man curled up against him, rested his head on Bahorel's chest. Yet that comforting weight is absent now, and he feels cold air where there was previously a heated form—something's wrong, the soft black space ripped through by the scraping noise of dry heaves.

"Jehan?" He's sitting up all at once, blinking furiously, and nearly falls out of the bed in his desperate attempt to reach for the lamp and flick it on. The room is flooded by light that causes him to squint painfully, but he can make out all he needs to—Jehan is still in bed; he must have reached right past him to get to the lamp. He's tangled in blankets up to his waist, doubled over forward, his hands clasped around his mouth and his frame trembling with violent gags.

"Jehan—hey, hey, what is it?" A hand instinctively flies to one trembling shoulder, and he's greeted by the awful sting of cold sweat. Jehan's hair, still faintly shower-damp, hangs in a stringy curtain around his face, the hollow cheeks of which are a sallow greyish-green shade that hits Bahorel like a punch to the stomach.

"Sick," Jehan gets out, fingers still firmly covering his lips. He shudders again, and it's all Bahorel can do to run a hand down his back, repeatedly, trying to provide some sort of comfort as he jolts and shakes. It's a truly awful sound, one that turns Bahorel's own stomach, and he's suddenly quite grateful that the sandwich from last night is still untouched, that there's nothing to come up. "…I feel—I feel so… so sick…"

"Look at me, Jehan, flower, please. Look at me."

The eyes, wide and flat with none of the subtle brilliance from last night, turn towards him, and it's no struggle to see that tears are lingering behind them, held forcefully back. He's never seen Jehan so pale.

"I…"

"No, shh, shh, you're fine. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Jehan leans into him, releasing half a sob as he buries his face in Bahorel's shoulder. Instinctively, Bahorel twines his arms around Jehan's bare back, still running his hands along the tense muscles in what he hopes to be a comforting action, continuing to cling tight and murmur worthless reassurances as the skinny frame spasms beneath him. His mind, not completely free of the sleepiness so recently thick around all of his senses, is a mess, heated and terrified by this sudden change. They fell asleep mere hours ago, he recalls desperately, and Jehan seemed fine then—_more _than fine, practically _happy. _This can't happen. Not now.

_Not now. _

But denying it will only inflict more harm. It _is _happening, and that reality re-establishes itself fiercely in Bahorel's thoughts as Jehan shakes with another weak retch. "Okay," he gets out, murmuring into the top of his partner's blonde head, "okay, we're going to the hospital."

"No—no, please, I hate it there—"

"Get dressed—can you get dressed? We have to go now."

"Bahorel… please…"

And even though the action tears like his skin itself is being gouged, he forces himself to release Jehan, ignoring the pitiable whimper that his action elicits, and scramble out of the bed, hurrying towards the closet. His actions and thoughts are quick, one following the next in a blind sequence, hoping desperately that they can achieve some sort of purpose. Open the closet, find clothes—shit, does Jehan have anything clean? It's not his goddamned apartment—he suffices to find the smallest shorts and shirt he can, then tosses them onto the bed, grabbing his own outfit and pulling it on as swiftly as possible. "Can you get dressed?" he demands over his shoulder.

"Y-yeah… I can."

"Good." Sure enough, he's only just pulled a T-shirt over his head when he turns to see Jehan sitting on the edge of the bed, still sickly-skinned but now clothed—the things that were selected for size purposes are completely mismatched, so that he now dons a slightly baggy pair of khaki shorts under a russet-colored sweater whose sleeves extend past his fingertips, but there's no time to worry about looks. Bahorel hurries over and wraps an arm around his shoulder, helping him into a shaky standing position.

"Can you walk?"

"'Course I can walk…"

"You sure? You don't feel faint at all? I can—"

"I'm fine. Bahorel, _please…" _

He ignores the soft imploration, instead keeping an arm around Jehan as he hurries down the hall and towards the front door. He grabs his car keys, kicks on a pair of shoes without bothering to find socks, then hooks a pair of Jehan's sandals under his fingers, muttering "You can get them on in the car." Then he's opening the door and slamming it shut behind him, they're descending through the inappropriately peaceful corridor and heading outside. The night is ridiculously calm, and Bahorel hates it, just like he hates everything else right now—hates his exhaustion, and his disorientation, and the way that he's moving so fast that he's never in one place long enough to process it.

"Let's just stay," Jehan tries, half-limping towards the car—his own; it's been parked outside of Bahorel's apartment in a gesture of semi-permanence over the past several days. "It's not like they can do much, anyways…"

"Don't you say that, goddammit. Don't you _dare _say that," he snarls, opening the passenger door and pushing Jehan inside as gently as possible before ripping over to his own side and leaping into the driver's seat. His hands are shaking as he settles one on the steering wheel, and it takes him three times to get the key in the ignition, each attempt punctuated by a fierce expletive forced between his lips. "You don't know if it's—it could just be something you ate," he insists in what he hopes is a rational manner as the power finally catches, and immediately sets about veering them onto the street and setting course for the hospital.

"I've barely eaten anything…"

"Then it could be that! You can't treat your stomach like that, come on…" The words catch in his throat, and he laughs to force back tears, his voice escalating into a near-hysterical half-shout. "I'm overreacting, you don't even need to be in the hospital, for something like that. I—_me, _I'm overreacting, and you're supposed to be the dramatic one—" Quite suddenly, he can't _stop _laughing, and it terrifies him—terrifies both of them, if Jehan's protest is any indication.

"You're scaring me—" The words narrow into a soft gasp, an almost startled sort of _oh, _and Bahorel, silenced all at once, nearly crashes the car in his effort to turn, to pull Jehan back into his sight. The young blonde man is leaning forward, suspended only by his seatbelt, with his hands covering his mouth and tears swelling in his eyes once more. "Hurts," he whispers, the word a ghost, and Bahorel has to hold back a cry of desperation as the salty streams run down his cheeks and over his thin, shaking fingers. "Bahorel, it h-hurts…"

"We're almost there, I promise, I _promise_," he gets out, forcing his eyes back to the road. The bright lights of the hospital rear into view, and he swerves them into the parking lot, sweat slipping between his palms and the steering wheel. "Hang in there, flower, please—" His voice cracks on the nickname, and then he's swearing again as he struggles to find a parking place. It takes far too long, nearly thirty full seconds, and Jehan's movements have gone from frantic to sluggish; he's sagging against the car door, his eyes half-closed and shallow breaths leaking from his whitened lips. Lightheadedness suddenly washes over Bahorel himself, but he forces it aside, thrusting open the car door and jerking the key out of the ignition before dashing to Jehan's side. He half-supports, half-lifts him out, and Jehan leans heavily against him as they move across the parking lot, his feet slipping. "I'm… I can't—" he gets out, then exhales heavily, his legs buckling.

"Shit—no, come on, we're almost there, almost there. They're going to figure out what's wrong with you, I promise, they're going to fix you, that's what doctors do," Bahorel reminds him, roughly heaving him back into some semblance of a standing position. He's practically carrying him at this point, Jehan's own still-bare feet only occasionally slipping in an attempt at a step, and his head feels as though a furious swarm of bees has found its way through his ears, white noise roaring as he gets through the double doors of the hospital and forces himself through the reception area, not thinking, only holding Jehan up and trying to get to the front counter.

"He needs help—Jehan Prouvaire, he's been here before, he—he's sick," and the words are disjointed, loud, everyone's probably watching him but he doesn't care because all he can think is that Jehan is hurting, and he needs to stop it, needs to save him. "Please—please, just help him."


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

_May 26th, 11:28 pm. _

"M. Prouvaire should be stabilized for the time being."

"What the hell do you mean, stabilized? He didn't need _stabilization. _He needs to be fixed! You need to help him—"

"We're doing all we can, monsieur. Your friend has a very serious illness, and—"

"Shut up. God, just shut your _mouth. _He's not my friend, and I know he—I know—shit..."

"Are you feeling alright, monsieur? Perhaps a chair?"

"Shit. I'm fine. I'm fine. When can I see him?"

"It would be best for him to remain on his own for the night, but visiting hours begin at eight tomorrow, and I'm sure he would be very glad to see you here. Family support is always—"

"I'm not his _family _either. Just—can I stay here? For the night?"

"I can fetch a pillow, if you—"

"I'm fine. I'm fine here."

"If you're sure..."

"Positive. I'm not going to sleep."

* * *

_May 27th, 3:04 am. _

"Yo."

"Courf."

"Dude, it's three in the _morning. _This is getting kind of ridiculous, to be honest—like, I get midnight, or maybe one, but any reasonable hours are long since past, and you could be interrupting sleep or something equally important, right, so—"

"I'm... back. In the hospital. ...Courfeyrac?"

"Do you want me to come?"

"No, it's... I... I don't know. Shit. Just a few hours ago, he started—I—I don't know what to—"

"I'm going to be there in ten minutes, alright?"

"No—no, don't. I'm alright. I'm fine. He's... he's stabilized."

"He's my friend, too, Bahorel."

"Please."

"...Fine. Tomorrow afternoon, though. You can't stop me, man. He's important to me."

"Okay... okay, just don't tell anyone else, alright?"

"That's not fair."

"I know."

"...Okay."

* * *

_May 27th, 4:57 am._

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a pillow, monsieur?"

"I'm fine."

* * *

_May 27th, 5:22 am. _

"Yeah?"

"Bahorel, I've been trying to call for an hour."

"So?"

"Courfeyrac told me."

"I told him to keep his goddamned trap shut."

"He doesn't often listen to people."

"I know."

"How do you feel?"

"...He's _dying, _Combeferre. He's dying and I can't do a single goddamned thing."

"I'm—"

"I don't care if you're sorry. I don't care if you wish you could help, because you can't. I honestly don't give a shit about anything you have to say at this point. I can't talk right now, alright?"

* * *

_May 27th, 6:16 am. _

"Hello?"

"So... you really do get up this early."

"Who is this?"

"Courfeyrac said you were technologically impaired. I didn't realize that you don't even know how to work caller ID."

"If you intend to waste my time—"

"—It's Bahorel. I, uh... Jehan's... back in the hospital. I thought... I don't know. Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking tired—I'm sorry, I'll go."

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you calling me?"

"...I don't know. I thought maybe you'd care. You cared before, I thought, sort of. Not that you showed it. I mean—I... I'm tired."

"You said he's in the hospital again."

"Yeah. Relapse, or something. Not that it ever stopped. It's gotten worse—that's all I know. It's all they know, too, I think."

"Bahorel."

"Hm?"

"I... I do care. Thank you."

"Whatever."

* * *

_May 27th, 7:01 am. _

"Are you sure I can't see him? It's less than an hour—"

"I'm afraid our enforcements are rather strict. It's been a very long night for both of you, I believe, monsieur."

"Stop calling me that."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm not—just—please don't."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:00 am. _

"I'm afraid that visiting times—"

"Look at the clock. It's eight. Move over. ...Hey—hey, flower, how are you?"

"Bahorel?"

"What, surprised to see me?"

"It's... it's really early."

"Yeah, I camped out here overnight. Wouldn't want to miss any action, would I?"

"Stop it. You look awful."

"Kind of you."

"No... no, really. You slept, right? At least a little bit?"

"'Course I did. But you didn't answer—how do you feel?"

"Well, I'm not throwing up any more, right?"

"There's that."

"Yeah."

"...Fuck, I'm sorry."

"For what? Don't—Bahorel—"

"For all of this. That I'm so—that I'm so awful at this, and you've always deserved so much better, and—that you won't get the chance for someone better, and... that I'm saying this now—God. I'm sorry. I'm—"

"Stop. Please... please don't say that. Please don't."

"I don't know what to do anymore."

"Sit with me."

"What?"

"Chair next to the bed, come on. Just... sit."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:49 am._

"Excuse me, monsieur, but we're going to have to ask you—"

"Shut up!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Quiet. He's sleeping, if you haven't noticed. And if you're here to kick me out, you're going to have a bit of trouble with that."

"...So I can see. If you'll just slip your arm out—"

"Look, I'm not moving, okay? You can't really say shit about rest, considering that he's—just leave us for a bit, would you?"

"...Right away, monsieur."

"I thought I told you not to call me that."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:53 am. _

"And here I'd been hoping that _you _at least had gotten some sleep."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:55 am. _

"I mean, they're really idiots, if they think that 'rest' happens only when people are away. Look at you now, right? Like some little blonde kitten, seriously."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:59 am._

"I mean what I said before, by the way. I really am sorry. Really—really goddamned sorry, about everything. I... you didn't deserve this. Well, of course you didn't deserve it—nobody deserves it, not really. Of course some people would disagree, but... nobody ever does anything but disagree, so whatever. I don't care that much. ...I never really used to care about things at all, you know? I thought I did, of course. You, um... you changed that. This is stupid. Okay. I'll... let me try again. I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don't need to say so, not that... not that you can hear. This is so stupid. But, just... do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? Because... because I'm selfish. You said that you cared enough about me that, uh—that you wanted to stay with me, for the rest of your life, and you get that now. Well... if I could have just a bit of that, it would be nice. Because it must feel amazing. So, you don't have to stay with me till the end, of course. You—you _can't, _I mean, shit... I just... shit. Okay. Just try. That's it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don't know what I'm going to do when it's over."

* * *

_May 27th, 11:39 am. _

"He's still sleeping. Don't bother him. I have to—I have to go home, but I'll try to come back tonight. Just... call me if there's any change, I gave the desk my number before, name's Bahorel."

"Of course, monsieur."

"I—yeah. Alright. Thanks."

* * *

_May 27th, 8:21 pm. _

"Oh, God. Shit. No. No, no, no, please no. Why does—fuck. No. Please."

* * *

_May 28th, 8:33 am._

"You know, he was practically _chipper _when I saw him. I wouldn't be so down, if I were you, it looks like he has a while to go. Not that you shouldn't feel bad, of course! That's fine. Just... well. Don't worry about his mood. He's good! Or—okay. He's better than _I _expected."

"How did you even... what—give me a second. Your call woke me up."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can call back later, Courfeyrac said you weren't getting much sleep—I'm so sorry, I—"

"Shut up for a moment, okay?"

"Right, of course!"

"...Okay. What's going on?"

"Well, Courfeyrac said that Jehan was in the hospital again, and offered to take me with—so the two of us and Combeferre went, and he seemed alright, though he did ask about you at one point—I thought that perhaps you'd want to know, in case you wanted to go back and see him."

"I can't. Not now."

"...Oh."

"Thanks, though. I'm... glad to hear it."

"Well—well, good, then. I'll let you sleep."

"Hang on—Joly?"

"Hm?"

"Tell Courfeyrac he's an asshole for me."

"Oh... al-alright, I guess, if you say so."

"Thanks."

* * *

_May 30th, 7:45 pm. _

"He really misses you, you know."

"I know. I just... I just can't."

* * *

_June 8th, 9:02 pm._

"Grantaire? What are you doing here? How... how do you even know my _address?" _

"I brought wine. Let's sit down."

* * *

_June 8th, 9:14 pm._

"Joly is actually convinced you're dead. Enjolras doesn't mention your name anymore. Even Courfeyrac is down... they miss you."

"Your voice changes."

"What?"

"When you say his name, you know. It gets softer."

"...We're not talking about him. We're talking about you. You need to start living again now, or you sure as hell won't be able to once he's gone."

"Grantaire, please—"

"I'm not going to pretend it isn't happening! That's what you're doing. You think that it's the opposite, that you're proving how much you care by giving everything else up, but that's not true."

"I—"

"Don't argue! I know it's not true, because I've been there, and I'm _still _there, and trust me, you want to get out while you can. You're lonely. And by closing off, you make it worse for everyone, not just yourself. So cut it out. Go see him again before it's too late. He could be gone any day."

"...Grantaire..."

"Do what I can't. Just that one damned thing. Please."

"...Grantaire."

"I want to know that somebody—"

"Just come here for a second, goddammit."

* * *

_June 8th, 9:32 pm. _

"His name. You... called me by his name."

"You didn't say anything."

"You're not him."

"Guess not. ...You'll have to tell him, probably."

"Tell him what?"

"Put plain, kid, you cheated on your boyfriend."

"No. I didn't. It's not the same."

"What do you mean?"

"It didn't feel like anything."

"...Huh."

"What?"

"It's just... bizarre. To think that it ever would."

* * *

_June 9th, 10:56 am. _

"Hel—"

"For God's sake, stop whatever you're doing and go find Grantaire and tell him that you care about him. Right fucking now."

_"What?" _

"I know you think it's stupid, but it's not, and it matters to him, and I'm sick of waste. You two deserve to be happy. Somebody on this goddamned planet deserves to be happy."

"Bahorel, I am quite sure that—"

"No, you're not. Go tell him. I can't stand watching people fall apart any longer."

* * *

_June 14th, 3:09 pm._

"...Hey, flower."

"Bahorel?"

"Who else?"

"I've called you _every day. _Grantaire said you were okay, but nobody else has seen you—I haven't—I asked them to let me out, I—God—are you okay? Please be okay, I—what happened? Something happened, didn't it? I want to see you, please, I... I—are you there? Just—talk to me, at least, I miss your voice, please, I—I'm sorry, if I did something wrong, I promise I didn't mean to do anything wrong—Bahorel? Are you there? Please be there!"

* * *

_June 14th, 4:26 pm. _

"_One new message. Left today at four twenty-five pm." _

"Alright, listen up, you self-indulgent bastard. Jehan just spent an hour freaking sobbing into my shoulder, and the only reason he stopped was because the nurses dragged me out. They thought that _I _upset him. Well, guess who really did? Bingo, that's right, it's you, you asshole. I don't know what the hell you said to him, but you _destroyed _him, man. He thinks that you hate him now, and I know you don't, so get your pretty ass over here, because visiting hours end at nine and I am sick of seeing him torn up over you. He _needs _you. Like, really needs you. And even though I personally think at this point that you aren't worth his time, that's not going to change anything. But if he dies over you—god damn it, Bahorel, if he dies over you, none of us are ever going to let it go. So stop being a selfish _brat _and come tell your boyfriend that you love him."

_"Message erased."_

* * *

_June 16th, 7:48 pm._

"Why didn't you go to see him?"

"Why don't you hate me, Grantaire? The rest of them hate me."

"You didn't hate me. That's the only reason I'm okay now. Thought I'd return the favor."

"You were better than me, though."

"Not ever."

"Debatable. ...How are things going, then, with him?"

"Different. From how I expected. He's not quite the same, when nobody's watching."

"Do you still love him, though?"

"It's not that simple."

"Pretend it is, then."

"...I don't know. I hope so."

* * *

_June 17th, 11:39 pm. _

_"One new message. Left today at eleven thirty-seven pm." _

"How the hell do you _live _with yourself?"

_"Message erased."_

"...I don't know anymore, Courf. God, I don't even know."

* * *

_June 19th, 5:12 pm. _

"Open the door, Bahorel. I'm not leaving. It won't kill you to talk to someone other than Grantaire, you know. I daresay it might even be healthy, and I'm sure everyone else will be reassured to know that you really are still alive. Joly especially... Bahorel. Come on."

"God _damn _it, what do you want?"

"To talk. Most of them are angry at you. I'm not."

"You should be. You're supposed to be the smart one, right, so it makes sense that you'd hate me at this point."

"Let me in."

"Fine."

"Thank you. Now, please, talk to me. I can tell that something is wrong, and I know that Grantaire is far from the best at listening, whatever he may say. He's distracted; I'm not. So, talk."

"Combeferre—"

"You're keeping something inside of you, something that you can't even tell Grantaire. Tell me instead. I won't ask you to go see Jehan, though I know it's what you both want. I only want to know as to why you're avoiding it."

"...God. I... I can't just—"

"You need to tell someone, and I'm here. So go on."

"...I love him. So much that it's hurting me—shit, it hurts so _much. _And he's sick. He's dying. He's getting weaker every day—I know I don't see him; he calls. Leaves messages. And I hear it in his voice. I want to see him, I want to stay by him every second, but I know that he's falling apart all this time, and I... I... shit."

"Just remember to breathe."

"I'm fucking breathing. I... know that he probably looks awful by now, and sounds awful, and I don't want to—I.."

"You don't want your image of him ruined."

"Shit, of course you wouldn't know. You've never been in love, have you, 'Ferre?"

"Close, perhaps."

"No. You'd get it, if you were."

"What would I get?"

"It's not just—it's not that I want my fucking _image of him ruined. _I'm afraid, of seeing him like this, I'm afraid—I'm afraid of loving him even more. That's it, I guess. I'm terrified to care about him even a tiny bit more than I do already, and I can't see him, I _can't, _because I know it'll happen. I want to be able to live after he's gone."

"You aren't living _now." _

"Don't get stupid and poetical. That's his job."

* * *

_June 20th, 2:46 pm._

_"One new message. Left today at two forty-six pm." _

"It's starting."

* * *

_June 20th, 2:53 pm._

"Let me through. Let me through, I—please. I need to get to him—I need to—please."

"M. Prouvaire is—"

"I know, that's why I'm here. I need to see him. I—"

_"Bahorel?" _

"Courf—I'm so—"

"Why the fuck are you here now? Let him through, he's a friend... damn it, man, why now?"

"I need to see him. I need to tell him I'm sorry. I've been so selfish. I've been so fucking selfish, and I need to tell him that I—"

"You can't."

"God damn it, of course I can—_let me through! _I need to see him! Please—please, I—oh, God, I—oh, God."

"Bahorel, you can't."

"Shit... no, no, _no, _shit, shit, please no, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—please, don't, I—shit, damn it, you have—fucking—defibrillators, don't you? Some shit, I—he's barely—I just need a minute, come on, I thought—I thought that—oh my—_God, _I—"

"We need to go. Come on. You need to leave him, there's nothing you can do at this point."

"Shut up, _shut up, _of course there is! He _called _me _yesterday, _he was _fine, _he can't be—they can't—I can't—"

"We need to go, _now." _

_"Leave me alone!_—Jehan, please, come on, sweetie, come on, just—I'll come every day, I don't care anymore, you... I... I... I love you so much, flower, please."

"He can't—he can't... hear you, Bahorel."

"I... I... no..."

"There are things they have to... to do. They don't want us here."

"I'll do anything, I swear, _anything, _just—just let me... anything, I need to talk to him, I need to tell him..."

"He knows. I promise he knows."

"Monsieur, we—I must request that you be seen out."

"I've been trying to get him out, he's not coming. Come on, Bahorel, let go. Come on."

"I can't leave him. I can't leave him again. Don't make me leave him again. No—oh, God, no—please, I have to—have to... I..."

"I've got him, madame. Thank you."

"Will you both be alright?"

"He's just upset. They were... they were close."

"Of course, of course. My most sincere condolences, messieurs."

"Thanks—come on, we need to go."

"He—he's gone."

"I know. I know."

"But he—he can't—I need him. _I need him." _

"I know."

"Jehan—_Jehan, please!"_

* * *

Time of death: 2:52 pm.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N** _Last chapter; thanks for the support!_

* * *

**10**

He reaches home aflame, choking in the back of Courfeyrac's car, curling into the seat and trying to make himself as small as he possibly can, to shrink away from this reality and force himself through the fabric of existence, tear into another place, somewhere where Jehan is waiting for him, where he won't open his door to silence, where he won't sleep alone tonight. The tears scorch his throat, burning, _burning, _and he's shaking, acting like a child—he knows, he knows he's foolish, but he can't stop, he can't control himself, he can't—he can't do anything but sit and shake and try to suppress the screams that claw at his insides. Miraculously, he manages to force his trembling lips together, clench his jaws into something that mocks steadiness, and he's blind, blind, blind until the car pulls beside what he realizes is his apartment.

It won't leave his mind. Golden hair, _limp. _Delicate lips, _frozen. _Thin shoulders, _still. _Lilac eyes, _closed, erased, hidden, ceased, eluding, gone, gone, gone—_

Needs to get out. His hand is on the car door, he's opening it, feet are on the sidewalk before a hand on his shoulders drags him down, and he bites into his tongue, draws blood, has to escape, can't stand it—_"Let me go." _

"You can't. You're a danger to yourself like this, you need to—"

"Let me go. Now. Don't _touch _me."

"I can't let you." Courfeyrac's eyes, sharp aqua, are all he sees. Vivid. Almost flinty. They belong on a jaguar, not a man. "I _can't let you, _Bahorel, I'm not going to let you hurt yourself."

"I'm not a fucking idiot. I won't hurt myself."

"I don't just mean—I don't just mean physically, alright? Every second you're alone—"

"I thought you hated me. Why should you care?"

"God damn it, you think I hate you?" Hands on his shoulders, too strong, too hot. He's shaking when he should normally hold his stance, and thinks he might even be clutching Courf's wrists in return—he hopes he's not, hopes that maybe there's some sort of strength left beneath the tears that have painted his face entirely in some gruesome watercolor. "You think I hate you, you poor—"

The pavement dips, and he must have been clutching him along, because now Courfeyrac is all he's holding onto, his fingers straining in a sharp flame of pain. "Shit—" Arms around his shoulders, forcibly supporting him, a snarled curse into his ear.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Spitting the word out until he doesn't know what it means anymore, holding on, holding on, terrified of what might happen if he lets go. Maybe he can do this—just keep clinging to Courf, not letting go to him, because surely reality can't reach him when he's drowning himself in another—he won't realize, this way, that there's another person he wishes he could suffocate himself with instead. "Oh, _fuck." _He can't even go to Grantaire, because Grantaire's not enough, and it's easy enough for the twisted cynic to call him by Enjolras's name, but for him—the man he's in love with couldn't be farther from the one who's somehow become his closest and only friend, and even if there was an identical copy, another Jehan that could provide everything he's already aching in the absence of, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't be him. And he needs him, shit, he needs him, he needs him; _"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" _

"Get inside. Come on, we're getting inside."

He doesn't know if they do move inside, because he's blind again, and the ache of his own desperate clutch on Courfeyrac is all he's aware of, other than the stabbing whiteness ripping him apart from within. He can't do this. He's never felt this. This isn't like reality, this can't possibly be reality—is he supposed to _live _after this?; because he can't imagine it—in attempting to distance himself from the most valuable thing in his life, he has inadvertently done the opposite, and now he realizes that without Jehan, there is nothing left.

"Why am I still here? Why am I? Tell me, Courfeyrac, you know, you have to know, someone has to know, there needs to be a reason, _tell me..._"

"I don't. I should, I know I should, but I don't, Bahorel, I'm sorry—" His voice cracks. It should be inconsequential, but it's not—it's not, because this is Courfeyrac, and for all his jubilancy, he is untouchable. Solemnity, perhaps, may be attainable, but he does not shed a tear, never has. He's strong. He's constant. He's one of the bravest of them all in the fact that he can't be touched, can't be moved, but he is also Jehan's best friend, and now his voice is breaking and Bahorel is breaking with it, somehow sinking down yet more. His fingers are numb, laced somewhere in Courf's T-shirt, and his face is against what feels like denim, perhaps the thigh, cold kitchen tile under his knees. He's gale-stricken. Shaking. Long fingers are tangling in his hair, holding him close, running through and offering murmurs of apology when the voice is no longer capable of as much.

"Don't cry. Don't you dare fucking cry. You can't. _You _can't."

"I know, I know..."

But he does anyways, because neither of them are strong enough for anything else, not when it gets down to this. So they stay there in his kitchen, Courfeyrac standing and Bahorel in a kneeling crouch, holding onto each other and hating each other because the man between them is gone, and now they're left with nothing but themselves.

"I loved him. I really loved him. After all this, I was in love with him the whole damn time, and there _must _have been something, I _know _there was something I could have done differently, I fucked it up, it's my fault, it really is my fault... god, it's _my _fault." Realization opens like a chasm, and his gasps fall hollowly into it, his fingers clawing once more as a whole new streak of shivers seizes him. The permanence is suddenly quite deafening in his mind, the fact that he _cannot _get Jehan back, that he's _gone—_and, at the exact same time, there is the blazing knowledge that it didn't have to go this way. Courfeyrac's own words come back to him, static-hissed on the answering machine: _But if he dies over you—god damn it, Bahorel, if he dies over you... _"...You said you wouldn't—forgive me, you said that—you can't now, that's not fair to him, you have to hate me—"

"What, like he'd want me to?"

"What he wants doesn't matter anymore."

The fingers in his hair still, then tighten, pulling almost to the point of pain. Yet the sharp stabs in his scalp are a relief, and he welcomes them, heaves in the material discomfort in some emotion parallel to joy. "It'll always matter. To me, anyways. Maybe—maybe you're different. I don't know. I have to go."

"You said you wouldn't leave."

"I can't stay."

"Good."

"I'm sorry."

Weight pulling away from him, slipping so that his hands are on the cold floor, as well, nothing holding him up anymore but himself. Courfeyrac's footsteps are deafening, crashes in the stillness.

"I—I am sorry, but I can't do this, I—do you want me to call Grantaire? I can—"

"None of them want this. Just go."

"I'm going."

He hears the door open but not shut; can't quite tell if he's missed it or if Courfeyrac really is lingering. He finds himself wishing for both simultaneously, with equal and opposite drives of desperation. _Don't leave me alone. I can't stand for you to be here. _

There's a mechanical snarl, heater or air conditioner. It's the time of spring where he can never remember which should be on. _Spring. His favorite season. _

_Fuck, _it's still spring. Twentieth. June twentieth. The number burns into him with a thousand times the intensity of the damned 2:46, and the solstice is tomorrow, that's one of the few dates that he ever did bother to remember—the solstice is tomorrow, which means he's gone a day too early, he didn't even get to finish his stupid final spring.

It hurts until it's ripping at him, literally feels as though an iron claw has descended into his throat and is now tearing out the flesh, strip by strip, and he can only try to keep up with his retching breaths—out of nowhere, the floor is far too cold, and everything rocks in a thousand directions as he stands, blinking, swaying, moving—out of here, away, into the bedroom—he can hide in the bedroom; there, he's there, on the sheets, under them, with a pillow wound in his arms, and it smells _just like him, _and he can remember the last night, the shower, the shy smile, his thin weight—he clutches into the pillow so tightly that the muscles of his arms rage, and he bites it, grinding his teeth together, jaws straining and aching—if he pushes hard enough, there won't be enough room for the tears to get out, or for his body to tremble in that awful weak shake—

For he _can't _be weak. It's the worst, the absolute worst thing that he could ever find himself called, but it's true—he knows it is. It's finally come, an enemy he couldn't fight, and it's destroyed him so completely that he's probably laughable in his devastation now—

But, God, does it even matter? He just wants Jehan back. _He just wants Jehan back, _and to hell with his strength, and his pride, and everything else. Jehan is gone. _Gone. _He was only just here, and so real that Bahorel couldn't possibly comprehend the possibility of his _ending, _even as it was right there, inevitable, approaching... he can't be—he has to be somewhere. Must be.

But he isn't. And Bahorel knows that. Knows quite clearly, with horrific stabbing lucidity, that he is quite simply gone. He no longer exists. His thoughts and beautiful emotions, which he could lace into such exquisite language—his job at the library by the college has been vacated, and there's one less name to call on the roll of all his classes, and his flat with all its books is dead, dead, dead to everyone—there are probably a thousand and one things that he knew that will never be shared, and Bahorel will never be able to feel him again, and it's so, so useless to dwell like this, because he's not coming back, and there's no point to swamping himself deeper and deeper in the pain that's already wrenching relentlessly, but he needs to, because there's nothing else, there is. Nothing. Else.

_How the hell did you let this happen? _

He doesn't know. He has infinite questions and not a single answer to provide himself with, and he knows that none of the rest of them do, either; the only wonderings that dare to cross his mind now are the ones that are somehow paradoxical in their own formation, pointless to even conjure in the first place, and it's useless at this point. It's all amazingly, deafeningly useless.

* * *

Two days later, he can eat again.

After a week, he talks to Grantaire.

Two weeks, and he almost smiles.

Three and he laughs—mouth closed, still not smiling.

In twenty-four days, he starts his classes up again.

Somewhere in it all, the funeral comes and goes. He attends in silence. There is no reason to try and put voice to the words that the rest will only hate him for.

* * *

They never talk to him. It's curious, how they tread lightly around him in a tightly obvious way, and yet adamantly refuse to acknowledge the source of the fissure between them. He is not as fully separated as he perhaps expected, and they still talk to him—or most, anyways. Despite his words before, Courfeyrac does forgive him. Joly, Combeferre, and Grantaire are truly kind; Feuilly frigid, Bossuet tight-lipped.

Enjolras shows up at his apartment in mid-August.

"What are you doing here?" Bahorel demands baldly, scowling at the golden-haired form. Enjolras hesitates for a moment, eyes cast upwards, then steps in. His movements are purposeful, and he keeps his shoulders stiff, his chin high as he moves past Bahorel, turns so that his back is to the wall and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his zipped red jacket. He doesn't quite look him in the eyes. His hair is bronze rather than honey, and cut shorter than Jehan's, falling in loosely curled waves to his shoulders instead of his elbows. Grantaire thinks he is beautiful. Bahorel finds his features to be ice-hewn.

"I haven't talked to you about Prouvaire, yet."

"Of course you haven't. Nobody has. I think most of them are pretending to forget about it, now." He hasn't forgotten. He never will. He hasn't looked at anyone else, not really—the idea of another relationship, of _moving on, _is laughable, even after thirty days and nights and more of thinking and thinking until there's surely not a single side left of Jehan's memory to be discovered. Perhaps he should be bored, or distanced, or anything but what he is.

The truth is that it hurts. It constantly hurts. Hurts when he smiles, when he moves, when he reads, when he breathes too hard. He's accepted that it won't stop—rather than adjusting, he's adapting; very, very slowly, this is becoming a part of him. He can pull together calmness for the public, and that's all that matters, as he's coming to realize. None of them care what he's holding inside so long as they can't see it.

"Yes. Well, I feel as though I should."

"Enjolras, please—"

"When he was hospitalized, the last time, you called me. Because you thought I cared."

He hasn't shut the door yet; the light catches in Enjolras's eyes and hair, refracting crystal glints of illumination. "Sure I did. I don't want to talk about this right now, please."

"But you need to. I want you to know that you were right, and that I did care, and I haven't stopped caring."

"Please—"

"I know it's hard for you." The softness in those sapphire irises suddenly freezes, and then his proud brows are curving into what's almost a glare, a gleam of their resolute leader biting through his even exterior. Teeth clenching, Bahorel kicks the door shut, and it bangs loudly enough that he jolts; Enjolras doesn't flinch. "I know it's hard for you," he continues, "but you're strong enough to listen to what I have to say now."

"How do you know?"

"I don't."

He remembers the first meeting at the Musain, after the diagnosis. How he decided in some instant there that he hated Enjolras. It's harder to say now, for love and hatred and everything in-between have been torn free from their previously clear separations in the last few months, cast into raging chaos where he only knows passion from apathy. He cares about Enjolras, at least. Can't quite call him a friend, but he does care.

"Tell me how things are going with Grantaire. You two had better be happy."

It unfolds in a snap—there are suddenly strong fingers at his collar, and he's against the door, his breath rushing out and adrenaline kicking into his veins in a sharp burst, because there are blue-fire eyes centimeters away from his, hot breath in his face, growling words shuddering through his eardrums.

"I'm not here to talk about Grantaire. Don't ask me about him."

"Why?" He's angry—angry at whatever this is, this ridiculous outburst; he feels the familiar burn of rage building in his chest, and it's so distant and yet so familiar and _right _both at once that he almost laughs—in fact, noting once more how some aspects of Enjolras's face, the shape of his nose and the curve of his lips, really do bear a striking resemblance to Jehan, he does. He laughs into the fury before him, mocking it so that Enjolras toughens into a yet more potent sort of ferocity.

"Because—" The grip loosens; rather than pinning him, Enjolras is now only holding him against the door, hard against his back. He's taller, and as Enjolras's head dips, the golden tangle atop it is all visible. He can see over him, into the room, and gazes silently, both of them breathing far more heavily than the situation merits, somehow Enjolras the one shaking and Bahorel perfectly still. "—Because I... I don't want him to come into this. I don't want him to—I... I am not going to speak of my own private matters at a time like this. I am here to apologize."

"Why the fuck would you apologize? You haven't done a single goddamned thing wrong." It's almost infuriating, the truth of it, which only really becomes clear now, with the solidity of the words settling into the tension-warmed air. "In all of this. Not one thing."

"Perhaps I have not, and that is because I haven't done anything at all. In the last days, you distanced yourself from him. It was all the others would say of you."

"Yeah, bet you barely noticed I was gone, yourself."

Enjolras ignores him. "You did what I have always done, and I want to tell you—I... I am here to tell you that you were right, before. When you supported him. When you chose to care, and to—to, beyond that, demonstrate the extent of that care, I..." His hand falls, and he steps back. There's a certain hollowness around his eyes; lack of sleep. "I do admire you, Bahorel."

"Hell no, you don't."

"I do. You have a... a strength that I will not ever come near possessing, and I respect that. I am sure that it's one of the traits which Jean Prouvaire found most admirable in you."

The name, as always, is like an unsuspecting thistle prick, the sting spreading slowly through his whole body. "Maybe it is. But why don't you tell me why you're really here? Because I know you wouldn't just—meditate on how much you admire me, and then come to say so. You're not like that."

Light eyes move upwards again, red-clothed shoulders shift in a silent high, delicate lips curl. "Grantaire told me."

"About us?"

"Yes."

"Great." So he's losing Grantaire, too. Does it matter? It doesn't feel like it matters. Maybe it's something that he'd do better without, either way. Any sort of loss that he's experienced over the summer has been eclipsed in the magnitude of June 20th.

"Do you... do you love him?"

And then he sees it—the slightest shake to that carven jaw, the flicker in the depths of the eyes, the hesitation in the voice. _I do admire you. _

_Or you want to. You want a reason for me to be equal to you. _

"Of course not." The words feel good to get out; he can't remember how long it's been—perhaps since Jehan—that he's been able to provide real _relief, _but he sees it now, in a pair of eyes that are darker, more feline than the ones that he immersed himself in for so long. "It's not like that. He helps me, to feel better. After Jehan—during Jehan—I just... it's a physical thing. I don't want to have this conversation."

Enjolras nods, slowly. He seems almost on the verge of a smile, an expression which Bahorel decides would be profoundly alarming to see on his face, but doesn't quite cross the edge. "I... didn't know. I... it is true, though. If he did care for you, in that way, I would not... I would not be angry at you."

"Sure seemed like you were."

"Prouvaire loved you. Grantaire cares for you, however that may be, and they are both men whose opinions I value quite a bit. I do believe that you will be able to find someone else, who feels the same way for you, who you... care about, just as strongly."

"Maybe." Bahorel voices the word to fill space, because this is absurd, really. Enjolras is the last person he'd expect to say a word to him about love, and even now they're hesitant enough that it's clear their speaker knows little of what he speaks—but that somehow makes them more pure all at once. Enjolras is honest. "...I could."

He glances over his shoulder, then, and squints as the afternoon sunlight slants through the front windows, bites into his eyes and floods him with white—for an instant, he can see only the inside of his mind, and there are flowers, soft and dusty and pastel, bursts of high, stevia-sweet laughter, a shy pearlescent grin, a smooth voice weaving lines of verse, long waves of hair like spun gold.

An ache. Not fading, but sinking, sighing into him. And, for the first time, he does not reject it.

"Not yet, though. It's going to be a bit longer." He looks down, and the sunlight snaps away; he can see the floor again, wood scuffed and dirtied a bit from where Enjolras stumbled in pushing him against the door, cobwebs whispered in a corner, a thousand imperfections running through the russet boards. "Just a bit longer, and then I guess I'll see."


End file.
